He shouldn't feel this way. He knows that, but it doesn't change anything.
Doesn't change the anger.
Part of him was worried that soon all he would have was this anger. Or perhaps scared was a better word, terrified that it would consume him.
A part of him, a small part he was ashamed to admit to, was glad he wasn't alone, though, in this feeling, this fury. Virgil all but radiated that anger and hate; at times it felt like he wasn't even there—it was someone else Scott sat next to. Someone that he didn't know.
Virgil wasn't someone prone to this wrath. It wasn't him.
Was he going to lose Virgil to it as well as himself?
The problem was that when Scott turned his mind to it, he couldn't place exactly why he was angry. It was just a sharp rage that had no direction, pointed at any and everyone, even when he knew it wasn't fair.
It wasn't Kayo's fault.
He knew that.
She had had nothing to do with John's… betrayal, for want of a better word, but every time she was here, his blood boiled and he felt sick with hate; every time she spoke to him, touched him, he wanted to scream at her.
Tell her to drop dead because… because she had failed. Failed them. Failed him.
She hadn't, though, he knew that, and punishing her for it did nothing but spread the misery. So he would try and move past it. Somehow.
She hadn't come back to today, and considering what the time was, if he had managed to keep track of time right, she wouldn't be visiting at all. This had left him and Virgil mercifully alone, pleasant peace for the first time in too long—there was no awkward talking or conversations. This meant that they had been left to themselves, and like they had most of the time they had to themselves, been playing word games. It was the only thing they could do, the only way Scott could escape this prison for a few brief moments. A few happy seconds before he was reminded by some nurse telling him what he already knew. He was blind and there was no reason he shouldn't be able to walk. He felt his jaw clench at the thought. It wasn't—
'Scott?' The concern in his brother's voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.
He frowned in turn. 'Virgie?'
'What's wrong? You weren't, I mean… It was your go.'
'Sorry.' He rubbed at his face, smothering the sigh and quickly building despair. 'Just thinking.'
'About?' He couldn't help but smile at the question and the soft tone and worry in his voice.
He opened his voice to answer but paused. He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to voice it, make it real.
He didn't want to admit it. He'd been hiding from it. He knew that now.
He was afraid.
'I'm—I'm blind.' For once, he thanked God his brother couldn't hear him and the agony he couldn't keep from his voice; there was nothing he could do about his expression, though.
He knew what his brother would be doing. He would be frowning, eyebrows knitting together as he tried to puzzle through the words. He could tell by the silence, and knew his face would have fallen as he watched him; it was that that crushed him more than anything else. That that made him crumble.
He'd never see that again, never see the expression play over Virgil's face; he was such an open book. He'd never see Gordon's stupid grin after a particularly bad joke.
He'd never watch Alan grow up. He'd never fly.
He'd lost everything, it was all gone.
He was blind.