"Does it help?" He asked softly

The old man looked up from the paper he was scrawling on with a pen "Hmm?"

"Does it help? I mean, does it help you get the demons out of your head?" There was a glint in his eye, as though the question had sparked some sort of hope within him, overriding the despair that people commonly saw etched on his face.

The old man turned back to his paper, staring at the words as though he had lost his thoughts within them. Time passed between the men, the silence echoing off the walls of the small study. Eventually the younger man drew a breath to repeat himself when the older one suddenly spoke.

"No. So what do I write for then? I give life to the words when I write them. A small imprint of my soul lingers long after my pen has stopped. With this, the demons can feed and sleep quietly for a while. If I don't, they will **** away at my soul, until I am nothing more than an empty shell walking around. With these words, I can survive until I have learnt how to cast the demons from my mind. Perhaps then, I will find peace."

The younger man turned away, wishing to prevent the other man from seeing the tears well in his eyes. The older man didn't need to look at him though, for he had asked his mentor the very same question to receive a similar answer. He knew that he had just shattered the new hope his young charge had found. It pained him to know, but he could not bare to lie. False hope only ever leads to more unbearable pain.