Look at you. You used to leap tall buildings in a single bound--well, jump off them , anyway--and what is that, Fraser? A hobby? A habit? Some freaky Canadian thing? You gotta start thinking about the, uh, the cumulative damage, you know what I'm saying? Your ankles go on you and you'll end up like my second cousin Vinnie and God help us all.

Look at you. Look. You're sweating just from moving from the wheelchair to your bed, beads of it popping up all over your face.

You're broken. You're damaged. You're--I did this to you. Shot you. Penetrated skin and muscle and bone and--I didn't mean to, okay? You know that, Benny, right?

I wanted inside you, God for so long, I've wanted, but not like this. Not my bullet. Not that. I wanted skin on skin, my mouth on--shit.

I never wanted to hurt you.

And I wish I wasn't jealous, deep down where I won't have to look at it often, that she hurt you more than I ever could.

I wouldn't; you know that, Benny, right? Never want to hurt you. Never.

But I wish I could, the way she did.

You know?

No. I guess you don't.


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