Bereaved

“You killed my brother!” Apollyon shrieks, raising his mace.
I should be frightened, panicking, running away.
I can’t move.
“I did not.” Of that much, at least, I’ve always been sure. It was an accident, followed by gross incompetence of medical personnel. I was in coma for two months myself. None of it was my fault, beyond the fact of my existence.
“You did!” he snarls at me, blind and deaf to all rational arguments.
I meet his eyes – the same colour as Yorick’s were – and for a moment we understand each other perfectly. Two people still mourning someone irreplaceable.