"Edward, why does it hurt here?"
He remembers enough of his life to weep for what he has lost.
"End the story that has lost its hero!"
"Or young men who lost their way?"
You should have thought of this before, are the words all sloshing in the inside of your thinkpan when you lie back on the floor. Your motherfucking best friend was always up in your case about quitting the pies, and you wanted to make him happy, really you did. And you really should have thought of trying before now, when he wasn't all of being around being his tiny little breakable self where the thoughts in your head keep telling you about it over and over.
If you put the hurt in your brother, you'll just — you'll up and throw yourself into the sea, is what you tell yourself while you stare up at the ceiling, your guts all twisted up and cramping and asking for pie. And then you squeeze your eyes shut until they hurt because your thinkpan is trying to conjure up a thought of his little thin arm bent all out of shape, and it's horrible, and you're horrible.