His arms are covered in scars, just like everyone else's here. In this damn place.

The blood on his hands is not his own. No, his blood will run in time.

The blood on his hands remains, even after washed away down the drain with warm, soapy water. He will never rid himself of it. Never.

It haunts him, especially during the night when he should be sleeping soundly and waiting for the day ahead of him.

His hands tremble as he goes about his life. His tired eyes hold much sadness within, plain for anyone to see if they bother to look. Few do. 

He is quiet. Keeps to himself. But among the quiet ones he is outspoken.

Everyone here is quiet.

When asked why he trembles, he just sits and smiles. He doesn't need to say why there are marks on his arms or blood on his hands. They know. Everyone knows everyone's secrets here. There are no secrets now.

His hands shake, the blood will never wash away. He is a broken, lost boy among people who are just as broken and just as lost.

This isn't living. This is Existing.