Don't even think about reachin' me, I won't be home
Don't even think about stoppin' by, don't think of me at all

The patient still looked so childlike, like he could have been one of the innocents. Even having seen the sight so many times, there was still something chilling about seeing him curled into the corner wrapped into himself. He was locked in another world and playfully ran his fingers along the white tile wall. He never noticed his visitor. He never spoke. He never even looked.

I did, what I had to do, if there was a reason, it was you...
Aah...don't even think about gettin' inside

The wretchedness of war had left the pair inaccessible to the rest of the world. One was imprisoned in his own mind. One now stood apart on so many levels that he alienated even those he loved. He was left now with just this one thing. Just his hopeless need to make things right for one who shouldn't have had to bear witness to the blood, who shouldn't have had to fight in his place.

Voices in my head...ooh, voices
I got scratches, all over my arms

The shattered boy slid his hand up the exposed arm. His fingers gliding over the smooth ridges along the skin. His face perfectly still, staring into a horizon forever away. He deepened the pressure until his nail pierced the skin. The hospital staff continually cut his nails, but as with any wizard, if they willed them to grow they would. And they were always sharp. A red line drawn in contrast to the white. It sickened the visitor, but he could not look away. It was his penance. A burlesque of blame.

One for each day, since I fell apart
I did...oh, what I had to do, if there was a reason, it was you

One cannot regret the actions taken in war. Because regret of one, leads to the regret of all. To dwell on every spell, every life ended, even if it was a terrible, terrible life, would tear the soul. The reasons, good or bad, held no meaning. All that was left was blame, and ache. Deep, deep ache. No one understood that better than the pair. One had broken and one had overcome. Spurring the worst kind of guilt, that of survival.

Footsteps in the hall, it was you, you...oh...
Pictures on my chest, it was you, it was you...

Every week the visitor came. He did not speak, he knew he wouldn't be answered. He did not seek to comfort, he new there would be none. He sat and watched the ruined life and replayed the death sentence in his mind. The images that scarred him unseen, yet had so thoroughly left its mark on the boy who held the wall as if he were going to fall off of the world.

Hey...I did, what I had to do...oh, and if there was a reason
Oh, there wasn't no reason, no

He could never understand why, at the last moment, the boy turned. Why instead of dealing the death that should have come, he sacrificed. Taking his place on the cross and allowing the other to carry out his fate. Every visit he searched for understanding.

"And if, there's something you'd like to do
Just let me continue, to blame you."

The words came crystal clear and composed. The first words spoken between the pair since the unforgivable. Tears flowed down the face of the visitor. He could not stop them, they had welled long ago and in so many words had found their escape. The boy's eyes glazed again and he was far away into his dead world. This would be the last visit. He stood and opened the door slowly, hoping for some reaction, a plea to stay, a plea to return. None came and his footsteps echoed down the hall.

Footsteps in the hall, it was you, you...oh...
Pictures on my chest, it was you, you...oh...

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