[Cool. Ephemera has a packet and lighter resting on the sink already. He tries not to smoke when he's painting, but he doesn't have any ash trays. That leaves the sink and all his paints, the murals drying heavy on the walls. He lights one and inhales deeply, letting the nicotine hit.

It helps a little. The clarity of it. Different from the feeling he gets when he paints. Sharper, somehow.]

When I'm here, I know it won't matter. Killing him.

[He exhales sharply, cigarette held loosely between two fingers.]

But then I look at him, and I see my family. They're dead and he's here. That's not fucking fair. And I know. I know. Shit's not fair. I get that.

[He's quiet a moment.]

It won't matter if I kill him or not. They're still gone. But I was angry for a long time. It kept me going. And I don't know how to let it go.