The clock stops for no man, but the time has driven him mad. His smile no longer turns with a wistful lust, but with a reckless abandonment. The bright gleam in his eye that was once joyous is now crooked. Always he is pushing that mess of black hair out of his eyes, always he seems to be muttering. I don't know if he sleeps anymore.
It tortures him to be the villain but there's no way around it. I think that is what bent his mind so completely. He doesn't hear me, but I whisper words of comfort, of solace. He doesn't feel me but I embrace him. Such a bright light he was once, now his light is diminished, barely detectable through the thick walls he built. There's cracks, where one can just taste the beauty about him that he tries so desperately to hide.
He's drowning but he won't take my hand. My hand is eternally outstretched for him, and sometimes I wonder if he will ever take it. He paces everywhere, the widest room is still his cage. His flesh is as uncomfortable on his bones as thorns and he pulls and scratches, trying to crawl out of it. Through those walls he is so sure. To everyone else he is confident to the point of arrogance, snarky to those who doubt him and charming to those who don't.
But I see the moments alone when he is panicked. He pulls on his hair like it's attacking him. His breath accelerates and his eyes are wild, sometimes he paces, sometimes he bares his teeth as he tries to keep the tears in. I really hate to see him this way, I stretch my fingertips farther, urging him to take my hand but he doesn't. Always he slides back into his mask, always he carries on.
But he was young then. His heart grows heavier with melancholy, and I think it's close to breaking. He is tired of his mask, it's so damaged it can barely hold to his face anymore, so he tosses it aside. The walls have become too tight, and too thick, so he knocks them down. With a final shuddering breath, and a last beat of his broken heart, he takes my hand.