In a way, I always felt like he was fortunate. He wasn't like the other kids, anyway. But only somewhat fortunate. Unlike the rest of us, he could dream. He dreamt of what he called 'a better place'. It was different from Paradise. Paradise was something he couldn't see right in front of him. It was too far away.
He always thought something different from the rest of us too… He followed God like a lost puppy. He cried for her, as we all did. He longed for her to come back, as she said she would. He was a believer. Just like us. He was part of us. But he was still different. I envy him for that, despite what happened. It's a strange sensation, to want what someone else had. But I suppose that's what ultimately killed him, even more so than his father's betrayal.
I look at him and I think of myself sometimes. Why couldn't I be like him? Why couldn't I see what he had seen? Where did it come from? What did it look like? What did it smell like? Did it have a taste? Even in death, I'll always remember the look in his eyes once he saw what he did. They were darker than usual, as if he realized the extent of his pain, and our pain alike. That it wasn't normal, so he said. I still don't understand, even now, after speculating for many, many years.