It's not. It's really not.

[He shakes his head and then rubs a spot on his temple, where there's a small scar. He'd hated that damn doctor at his trial, but he'd been right: their deaths replayed themselves in his head a thousand times a day. Dead. Dying. Leaving him with nothing. ]

I see how this ends, every day. Every time I close my eyes. Every damn time. But I don't get the beginning. Like it's faded, covered in red.