Written In The Stars

He sat there for hours, never moving, thinking and warring with himself, finally getting up and going into her bedroom, the unmade bed from that last morning unkempt as he sank onto it, taking in her scent of vanilla and soap. He let himself cry, then. Tears rushed down his face, cradling his knees with his hands like a small child. He screamed and lashed out, punching her bed, her pillow, her headboard. Why was it he, he who would always have to go on? Why couldn't he die? Why did he have to endure suffering for a hundred lifetimes over? Why was it always he who lost? – Doomsday; Alternate Ending