After a time that stretches on forever, you pull away from Darin with a shudder.
You've stained the arm of his tunic red with your blood. Still shaking from before, Darin hastily searches around your tent. He clasps a roll of bandages and gently throws it over to you.
You catch the roll and begin to bind your wrist.
As you do so, Darin turns around. He lifts the back of his shirt, revealing a patchwork of deep scars, not unlike the cuts on your own arm.
"I know, Arthur Hornraven. I've been down the same road. I've whipped myself. I've…" He swallows, hard. "I know how it feels. And goddamn it, I'm here for ya, you understand me? Don't do what I did. This ain't a path to walk alone."
You shake your head, replying, "What am I to do? Fuckin' talk about my feelings? Is that supposed to make it all go away?"
"That's damn better than hurtin' yourself. I of all people know that."
"It doesn't fuckin' matter," you say, glancing away.
"Just speak to me," he says. The desperate emotion from earlier is replaced by a palpable weariness. "Please."
You sigh.