(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

The Dustman didn't look up. He stared straight ahead, as if he was seeing
something several leagues beyond the walls of the bar.
"Are you all right?"
The Dustman didn't respond. He kept staring into the distance.
"All rightie then..." Morte hissed. "Let's go, chief. This Dustie might as well
be fertilizer."
I sighed. "Fair enough. Let's get out of here."
As I turned to leave, the Dustman suddenly spoke, his voice barely a murmur
-- I had to strain to hear the words. I thought he said something about
wanting to die.
"What did you say?"
The boy's expression did not flicker. "Do you want to die?"
I mulled it over a moment. "No. Do you?"
"Yes..." He studied me. "Why do you want to live?"
"There are certain questions I need answered about my life before I am
willing to surrender it. I want to find out who I am."
The Dustman listened silently. After I spoke, he didn't respond, merely
watched me. He looked like he was thinking.
I took a chair next to him. "Do you want to die? Is that why you asked?"
His gaze slowly slid over to meet mine. "Yes."
"Why do you want to die?"
"This existence... this existence is a mockery of life. I do not wish to continue
the charade any longer." His face wrinkled in disgust. "Why would anyone
wish to remain in this foul city in the center of a multiverse that feeds on
pain and hatred? Death... is silent... comforting."
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