Carter Wilson

Who the fuck did I kill in New York City?

See, that’s the thing about trauma. You never get to quit it. You never get to walk away from it and rediscover the innocence and joy you felt just before The Thing happened.

I give him a long, slow blink. I think I might even have smiled.

His eyes remain glued open.

Touché, fucker.

For him to find me.

We never really know how others view us, but the one certain thing is that it’s rarely how we expect.

“You’re killing him.”

“We…we have another brother.”