It's hard not to cry...

. . . when the adrenaline dissipates after the crisis has been diffused.
All that's left is thoughts. And feelings.

And a sobbing, apologetic little boy.
"I'm sorry! I'm so so sorry I hurt you!" he cries.
"I'm okay. I'm not mad," I say, blood dripping from my busted lip.

And that heartbreaking expression on his face; the look of realization when he joins the rest of us back on Earth, from wherever it is he goes when the monster inside him takes over, to see what he has done.

But was it really him?
Was it really him doing and saying those awful things?

I don't think so. I really don't.
And that's what makes it hard not to cry.