How did this happen? Who the fuck had he pissed off enough in his life to deserve this from Karma? He couldn't think, couldn't feel. He was so fucking… Empty. It was like; Dave was gone and replaced by a fucking shell. He was only eighteen and he'd already felt the pain of losing his one true match. No. No, he couldn't be that fucking sappy, he had no one to even be sappy for, why would he do that? Just fuck it, all. Fuck every fucking person with someone to hold and love and cherish still and all those who would find their match. He was going to be stuck this lonely, empty shell the rest of his existence.

You watched as they carried his body out of their hotel room, tears shamelessly streaming down your cheeks, hands clenched at your sides. You trembled as you watched, so completely fucking helpless. John had been dead for officially five minutes and twenty six seconds now. Twenty seven. Twenty eight.

Tick, tock, tick went the clock in your head, counting up the time it had been since your world had crashed to the ground. Fuck, you couldn't stay, you were being told to pack up your things and get out of the house, it was a crime scene now, but why did they have to fucking investigate YOU KNEW WHO FUCKING DID THIS, you told them that but they wouldn't listen, no one listened to you, he didn't, they weren't, why would they? You were sure you were going crazy. Yes, crazy, that was a good way to describe this feeling; like you were lost and here and not and—how were you even still thinking? How is that possible?

Fine, you said, as you finally stormed off to your bedroom—no, you couldn't stay for more than a few minutes because every fucking thing reminded you of him, of what you lost fucking nine minutes and forty six seconds ago. His clothes tossed haphazardly, the water glass and first aid from the night before, when he came to you, beaten and abused and so fucking broken.

You only grabbed the basics; a few pieces of clothing, your keys, your razor—wait, why grab that? To feel something again, you told yourself. In that case, you reasoned, you might as well grab the lighter, too. And your cigarettes. They would go nicely with the scars already scattering your body, yes.

Dave Strider was eighteen years old when he died inside. That was when he first lost life.