"People are strange," you say, wrapping your arm around me. We're sitting on the bunk bed, and you've got a letter in your other hand. It starts out with "Our sincerest apologies, but unfortunately we cannot help Nageki Fujishiro …"

"Sometimes, you have to look a little harder, to find the goodness in them, you know?"

I don't know, but I nod anyway. You sigh deeply. I think this is a lot more disappointing to you than to me, but I don't say anything.

"Someday, it will be the opposite. We will get a response with a "We are happy to help you,"

You poke me in my stomach. "…And find a cure."

I smile and nod; choking on keeping a cough down I know will only concern you further.

"You know, I love you. A whole lot, actually." You give me a hug, and I feel content. It's though nothing can get me in your arms.

I grin, and reply with "I love you, too."

I was always second. You always got to say "I love you", and I tacked it on with a cheap "too". You matter, so much to me, I love you so, so much, but I can never catch you. I never say it first.

It's cold. His fingers are fucking cold. The knife is coldest. Where are my anesthetics? God damn, this is painful. You're not here, and you aren't anywhere close. Your arms cannot protect me, now. You… you said this man, this stranger, will take care of me for a while. That he will bring me back to health.

And only then, can I go home to you.

But when his gloved hands prod at my skin with everything from fingers to drills, I don't get the safety feeling you're supposed to get from doctors. Why are we in a dark room, in a basement of the school? Where is his proper doctor's office? Why can I not tell the other students why I've got bandages around my head and on my arms? You see, this is not safety. This is not a sanctum, where I'm in your arms. I am truly all alone.

Why can't you come and visit?

I want to go home. I've got bandages on my stomach and chest, and it aches especially when I lean over, but I cannot remember what he was doing. I don't even remember his cold fingers or tools this time. I'm writing you this letter, and my tears are getting on the yellowing journal book I scavenged up. I don't know who's this was, but it's mine now. My tears are making it difficult to write, they fall where I plan to put my next words and it rips the paper with the point of my pencil. I hope they dry and are undetectable by the time you get this letter.

I want you to hold me, again. I want you to talk about math, and I won't complain about how I hate it so. You can explain the Pythagorean Theorem and how to find the slope of a line a hundred times if you must, so long as I am in your arms, against your chest.

Sometimes, I wake up in my cell. I've been calling it that, now. Sometimes I wake up from that dream. I hear Kanta crying, I hear Pyonpyon scream. I want to be held the most, then. But they are not there, and neither are you. You cannot lay me back down on my bed and stroke my hair and tell me it's going to be ok.

"It's not ever going to be ok again, is it?"

You hit my hand, but you are not angry. You are upset.

"Don't you say that," you growl, just as you do when I bring up those memories you weren't even there for. "It will be ok. You'll see. You'll be ok, and so will I."

I begin to cry. It's not that easy, but you act like it is. You make it seem so easy to wipe the slate, to ignore the things that have happened. It's not so easy, brother. Not ever.

You kiss my forehead, and tell me "it's going to be ok" anyway. I will never believe you.

It's still not ok. It's most definitely not ok.

He's coughing. She's gagging. I'm crying. Each time, it's the same, just a different victim. I'm trying to apologize, but who am I to be sorry? I'm the one who's killing him. I'm the one who's killing her. I'm on my hands and knees, attempting to calm him; attempting to talk to her. They never even know why they are here in the first place, and are surely not expecting a high school student to be slowly and silently murdering them.

For the first few times, neither did I.

I know this disease far too well, now. It's why I get most of the bandages that are on me. It makes odd dot-like blotchy patterns on the skin in patches all over, and they're incredibly sensitive with touch. They itch and burn and sting all at once, and sometimes it gives me the urge to just tear my skin off.

Without even physical contact, by merely breathing the same oxygen as I, I am converting this putrid disease to each innocent human, one at a time. This doctor is at fault for it all. He knows exactly what he is doing, and my immune system is perfect for it.

And now, my hand is shaking. My handwriting is even less legible than usual. Tears are blurring the words I'm trying to create and running the graphite, smudging it everywhere as I write, for unfortunately I am left-handed. I want to tear this page out and throw it. I want it tear it apart and shove it down that doctor's throat.

I struggle writing the next two words. You- three years ago… you had yelled at me- so loud- you yelled at me to never, ever say these two words again. The shy neighbor a few doors down even burst into tears at our doorframe, simply asking us if we were okay because of your screaming.

I write it so slowly. I…apostrophe…m…

And I drop my pencil. It rolls off my journal and onto the cement floor. I don't pick it up. I press the palms of my hands in my eye sockets, and I grip angrily at my hair. I can't do this. I can't write these words, I can't do this… I can't move, I can hardly breathe.

I let out a cry of agony; stand up, my chair sliding with a screech on the floor. I shove the damned journal and all crumpled failed letters and confessions off the metal table. For a moment I think the doctor will come in and tell me to shut the fuck up. He's not… he's not here, however. I know that. He went home, or perhaps back to the school's infirmary. No one's here. I try to take a deep breath and continue, but I think of you and I'm rattled with violent sobs again, and I collapse.

I just want you to hold me, one last time. Don't I deserve at least so much?

Don't you?

You're screaming. This is a thick metal door, but I can hear you loud and clear. I smile sympathetically, and run my hand down the door, fighting back tears. I wish I could hold you, but then you'd never let me go.

And for once, I have to. I cannot let you hold me.

You're begging, and I desperately try to sooth you. Why can't you calm down? You must, must understand. You being here is a mistake. You were supposed to be too late.

"I love you" I say, but I'll never know if you replied with the tacked on "too", finally.