Hoshor Plains I Wear My Sins On My Sleeves

"I'm alright." He says, terse, willing the tightness in his chest to go away. 

But it doesn't, and it won't, not for a long time. And what would Ruth think if she saw you? Your son is dead. You're playing like a child in his bathtub, and your son is dead. He wants to protest this phantom-Ruth. He brings up the well-worn argument: I do not want to fall into despair. I won't choose it. I will move on. It falls apart in his mind. 

He turns around. "It's not your fault. I promise." He shakes the water off of his coat. "I just... need some rest." A forced smile, no teeth. Then he walks off, brisk, back where he came from. 

As he walks, he's mouthing to himself, as if praying: I'm selfish. I'm a selfish person. Manic, erratic. The words stumble into one another and refuse to come apart.