A Grave

Judas Anderson stood at the spot the doctors said his brother had sacrificed his life for him, slowly kneeling at he looked at the outside of the ballroom, not stepping inside.
The memories seemed grainy and fuzzy, they were like a film, like ghosts of his past, and he didn't care to understand him.
He could remember his brother Alexander, a tall, sandy-blonde young man, though the only pictures of him were in his head, of Alexander's face distorted in pain, splattered in a rain of blood.
Judas couldn't care less what had happened, but he felt drawn to his lost past.
He bent over, removing his black glove to reveal the metal prosthetic that was his right hand.
It was shaped like a normal hand, though made of hard, cold black metal, it was quite ingeniusly jointed and almost as flexible and quick as a hand of flesh, and in the center of his palm was a red sensor whose use only he knew.
Slowly moving to a spot in the ground, he traced a large cross into the ground, remembering his lost brother.

Judas peered at her with distant eyes, slowly rising from the makeshift cross and slipping the glove back onto his hand, eyeing her warily as he spoke in a quiet, collected voice.
"Ah, so you know my name? I suppose you are another figment of my past. Nice to meet you, I suppose."

He smirked.
It was an unconscious, almost natural and comfortable expression, some things hadn't changed.
Eyeing her with evident disdain, he nodded towards her.
"So, you took me to the hospital, hrmmm? And I disliked you? Why is that? As for my current status, I am fine."

Judas was short and concise.
"Why yes, certainly. As Stalin would say, compassion is for the dogs. It was quite kind of you though, to take me and not my brother."
He smiled a devil's grin.

Judas chuckled.
"People wanted to kill me?! How delightfully amusing! Now that I am renewed I'll be sure to return the favor and seperate their souls from their bodies. Why exactly did they want this? Jealousy? Ignorance? 'Tis often the case among foolish men."