So he took out his frustration on himself. It would build up and build up until the pain came, like a sharp, piercing object. But it was. The sound of the ripping flesh, though gruesome, calmed him down. But he was not happy unless it escaped. Deeper and deeper he would feel the pain, until the crimson hurt would flow out. Then all would see that he wasn�t a constant�he was human too.
But then would come the guilt, the agony of the lives he would hurt as the pain flowed out. It drove him to dig deeper, dig to something to deplete the source of the pain
Now he is found too late, when the pain was gone, but no one came. Lives are hurt, but he is not there to cheer because no one noticed his own hurt.
They could find him at rock bottom, cast down, defeated, slain, because they failed to see the pain. Now he is gone, two eternal lines of deadly release on his lifeless limbs.
The beautiful hands, that did so much good, mangled where limb meets hand, destroyed by crude pain and cold and white, victim to the failure to look into eyes. And it has cost more than can ever be given back� it is gone forever.