His eyes were sad and grey when I met him. They reminded me of a stormy Sunday morning. I asked him about it and he said they’re green and grey, hazel, or rather something in between. I never saw them green though, always sad and grey. There were days when they were little less grey, and when they looked black almost. Days when he’d come with fresh cuts on his thighs and wrists, still leaking small spots of blood. Days when he’d come with his skin blistered from the scorching hot metal he’d press on it until it boiled and hurt. Those days he’d come and his eyes were empty like used shotgun shells, just a hollow space where life used to be.