He probably should have felt lonely as he watched Scott leave, but he didn't.
He was alone before his brother came to see him, and he was alone while he was here—what was the difference after he left?
He was isolated, and no matter what was done, that wasn't about to just change.
Scott came to see him because Scott needed to, not because he wanted him to come, not because he needed him.
No, Scott did it because Scott wanted to.
He had given Scott the music because even if Scott didn't care about him, he still loved his brother. Why, he wasn't entirely sure. He didn't deserve it.
But, no.
This wasn't true. Or fair.
Scott cared, and it was because he cared he was here every moment he could be.
Virgil hated hospitals—the smells (and formally the sounds) got under his skin. They made him sick. The very structure of hospitals got to him, clawing at his nerves.
That was why Scott was here with him instead of resting.
For the first time ever, he wanted to be able to hear the cold and hateful drone of this place. Hear the noises that made him feel ill.
The sound of death itself.
He wanted to hear anything.
This silence was too much, a constant nothingness, but his own thoughts were too much. He didn't think so but maybe, just maybe he could have lived with this if he could touch. But no, he'd never be able to.
Sure, they said he would get prosthetics. He was to be measured in a week or something, but it wouldn't be him. He wouldn't be the one playing the piano, he wouldn't feel it.
It was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
Why was he alive?
Whose sick joke was this?
He wanted to cry, but he'd long run out of tears.