The anger that for a few brief, black moments had felt so righteous was unspooling out of his control. He was getting tangled and snared in the coarse strands of it, and the words were coming out muddled and wrong, and they weren't understanding—
Or maybe they understood all too well.
Maybe he did resent them sometimes, when he thought of how they'd all just gone on living their lives, when he thought of how little a ripple he'd made when he'd gone under.
Forgetting himself had been torment. But the thought that they'd all forgotten him, too—
Will clawed his hands through his hair, as though he could dig the thought out of his brain, but the hurt was sharp and bright.
"I don't... fuckin' hate you, fuck. You're not the ones went and fucked everything. Not your fault I'm dead fuckin' weight, I shouldn't need my bloody hand held."