The air was cold. It ran its icy fingers over Matthew's curled back, causing him to shiver miserably. His clothes laid in a corner, crumpled and stained with small spots of blood, where he'd scratched through his skin on his arms. His friends stood around him, trying to comfort him. Even Ezra, big and silent and stoic, sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his hair. Matthew chose to ignore how the bed didn't sag under his huge weight.
Maddie was curled around his back, stroking his scabbing arms, murmuring into his ear; but for once, it didn't feel comforting. Matthew was drowning. I killed him. I killed my own twin. He's dead and it's my fault.
It was a year today. A year he'd been here in this white, sterile hellhole. He'd made no new friends. His parents never visited. And why should they? He'd killed their favorite son.
In his surprisingly soft voice, Ezra said, "It isn't your fault, Matityahu…" Stupid Ezra and his stupid adorable Hebrew. Ezra was Matt's favorite. He was gentle and protective and had big, calloused hands. His hands always felt so nice…
Matt sat up and clung to the large man with a sob. "I-It's all my fault! I k-killed him and th-they hate me and I'll never s-see them again!" Ezra held him gently and rocked him, rubbing his bare back with those rough hands. Matthew shuddered softly, calming down quickly. He pulled himself into Ezra's wide lap and sat, protected. Ezra would never leave him. None of his friends would. Even now, they were all in the periphery of his vision. He settled into Ezra's lap, hiccupping through his tears, and slowly fell asleep.