I knew who he was.
He was a nobody, and he was a problem. He came out of Nowhere, and with his little group he began to create chaos for the entire army. I saw those fools pour over why he was doing this and spewed this and that at everything and none of it was true. Everyone had their own idea, formed from rumours, speculation and their own paranoia, on why they were so dead set on standing in King P's way, "how dare them".
I knew where Nowhere was, too. I knew it-we knew it-like the backs of our hands. They didn't know him like I did; how I could. He was a pacifist. He was a dreamer. He was a snitch and a crybaby and he was a boy who loved the cool grass, his mother and sunflowers just because she loved them.
I knew who he was, but I didn't tell anyone. It was because the word "brother" didn't mean anything to me anymore.
It's all meaningless, like all their empty praise and admiration. It was like the fact he was my brother, it just was and that was all. It might have meant something once upon a time but that had all been chiselled away. Stripped down. Clean. Perfect. Efficient and ready for use with its belly cut open and its guts and heart on the floor. They could do whatever they wanted; thought whatever they wanted. I wasn't about to change because that just how it was. Or couldn't. After all is said and done, the only thing you can be sure of is that my body was alive. And that was for fighting. The only thing left for me to do was to do whatever King P wanted, and that was to destroy anyone that got in his way.
It was too much of a hassle to get everything back. Trying to push it all into that gaping hole and all I'd get would be a hollow ache in my chest.
It had no meaning, even when he cried while he held me dying. It wasn't surprising, since I knew him so well once upon a time. He shouldn't have been crying. I had been gone for so long that he probably should have gotten used to it. Had it chiselled away. Mother and I should have taught him that. I supposed I was going to wherever she was, but I knew she wouldn't be waiting for me. I simply was not the son she remembered.
It was a familiar thing, to see tears running down his face. But I don't think I'll ever understand him. Even though I've grown disconnected, there was a part of him that was still the little crybaby I knew. Maybe those tears had been all he could hold on to. He probably had to put his heart into everything. I fought and just lived because it was all I could be sure of.
His heart was all he had, and he was spilling it all out to me. But I couldn't even accept that. Tears had no meaning because I never cried them. My body had given way and he was giving his everything to me while I had nothing. Even my reason for living had been erased; it left me with nothing but the common material that made a broken human body. I could have tried to reach out-tried to stuff it all back in-but all I'd get is the same ache I got when I was hitting and hitting and he wasn't hitting back until I gave in and let the lightning loose upon me.
I couldn't give him tears.
I couldn't even wipe his tears away.
I couldn't love him, so I could only tell him I was sorry.