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Edward is dead…Al finds that burying himself in copper-colored memories can give him some sense of clarity. Oneshot.


It must have been late afternoon. The river was soft; it looked almost bloodstained. It reminded me of you. There were little tufts of clouds peeping through the window at me, smiling, as odd as that might sound. The house smelled like laundry soap and candles. I was showing a softer side…not that anyone had ever told me I had one.

Teacher said to look in the basement. There were photographs in a box underneath the rickety old stairs. Fifteen of me. Nineteen of you. And what an insignificant difference…but you were never insignificant, were you, brother?

I touched the yellowing edge of the picture. It was old, at least by a few years. At the time I was glad it wasn't in color; glad that I couldn't see the brightness in your eyes. In dark reality, they burn like hell fire, scorching everything in their path. In the photo's scene you were being praised, with an amusing smile on your lips. But I don't understand why I'm telling you this.

It was so long and yet so short a time ago that you died. For a long while before and during that time, I had been thinking; privately, of course. You didn't want to hear it and I didn't want to be wrong. Why am I in this body? It's cold here. I can't see and yet I'm not blind, a terrifying contradiction in itself that I will never grow fond of. I'm feared and there's little to no one who can empathize, or tell me the darkness gets brighter in the end. But I will not complain.

I can't complain. Because at least you were happy, brother. You were in pain, I had to remind myself, and you had sacrificed so much for me.

But why you?

Why were you so imperfect with all of your flaws, with your broken wings, and yet…they were wings, weren't they? Wings belong to angels, and aren't angels...

Brilliant. Talented. Loved. Admired. Beautiful…easily forgiven, to be sure.

Warm.

Why?

And then it occurred to me, brother. I must have woken up from the dream I had been suffering for over three and a half years. The smile plastered on my face (irony, for I never had a face, never could smile) was for you and you alone. And you never thanked me. You never told me what happened the night we committed that terrible evil, but you knew exactly. What. You. Were. Doing.

You wanted to remain the way you were. Who could blame you? Brilliant, loved, and with flesh you could call yours. With nineteen photographs and the smiling praise of Teacher. I know you loved her, and I know she loved you back.

You never wanted to do the transmutation alone. You wanted my help. Because you loved me? Because you were frightened of being alone? Or am I really that disposable when it comes to the miracles of science?

…Would you have taken my own body, if it came to that?

I wanted to know. But I didn't want to ask you. You've always been so impersonal; some call it a bad trait, but there will always be those who view you as perfect, brother, and for that I can't forgive you.

If I burn these photographs…if I wipe the blood off the knife, wash away the crimson grime and try not to see you every time I pretend to fall asleep in this hollow shell…

Will you be able to forgive me?