The worst of it had been breaking Murphy's heart all over again.
He could live with some of it. Seeing the innocence back in those blue eyes, the cheerful joy at life that had slowly been crushed over the last eight months, that almost made it bearable when he walked in and Murphy had been lying there with bandages and drips and the doctor had said some damage had been done and they hoped it was nothing too serious.
The paralysis was going to be a hurdle, but he knew that Murphy would make it. Already he was learning to write with both hands again, hand writing as legible as it had ever been.
But when Murphy had finally looked at him with that hopeful cheer and said, "When's Roc comin' in?" he couldn't remember what the good side of this was.
To Murphy, nothing past the night of St. Patrick's had happened. No dream, no mission, no guns...
No death.
No Da.
He hadn't told him that day. He'd let him sleep for a bit and dozed on the cot the nurses had put up for him.
When Murphy woke up, he'd sat down next to him, leant in close and breathed the words against his twin's lips. Over and over again until Murphy stopped laughing and realised that he meant it when he said that Rocco was dead.
It was the worst thing he'd ever had to do in his life, holding Murphy as he learnt of Rocco's death all over again, screamed and sobbed the same way he had when Rocco had breathed his last breath into Murphy's listening ear.
And he decided, of all the things amnesia had given back to them, it wasn't worth it when he had to break Murphy's heart all over again.