The words in which he spoke were maniacal. The man never directed his words to one man, not even many. No, he spoke to the dead. People that no longer roamed in his presence.
He was a reminder of what the world lost as they look at his tattered suit Jacket over his cut up dress shirt. His dirtied khakis was in no better condition as they threatened to completely tear more with every clicking step he took.
The public avoided his pleading screams at what was seemingly nothing. He screamed at people repeatedly, screaming words that made no sense to them.
A reminder of how the world can go wrong, a reminder that the very depths of the world hides ugliness that we cause. He means no harm, yet when he is looked at he causes pain to people's hearts and they are forced to look away, or turn the other direction. It's not his fault, this was put on him by the nightmares and insufferable thoughts that drove him to the point of insanity.
Little to be recognized was that he had lost so much and the world forgot his agonizing story. A veteran he was, fought in war and came home to find his wife and child murdered. The PTSD got so far into him that he couldn't take it anymore. He wore the same suit he wore to their funeral every day for the rest of his life. He lost his home and became a beaten drunk. He screamed their names in people's faces because the case was long since forgotten.
Their faces alongside thousands others lingered in his head, making him scream to them, wanting freedom.
