Watching stars fall over our heads

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

Her quiet reminder has him inhaling a shuddering breath, salty with tears and the smell of her perfume. It hasn't changed since he was born, and it's as comforting as her gentle hold. He sinks into the couch and lists sideways to keep his head propped on her shoulder, not wanting to face the world outside of the sense-memory of her warmth and scent.

He's grateful beyond measure that she doesn't force him to look her in the eye. He's always found it hard, even when he was a kid, and the soft vibrations of her voice through her chest are infinitely more soothing. As her words settle in and shore up the broken defenses around his sanity, her hand cups his cheek, uncaring of the mess of tears she finds there.

It's validation he never expected to receive. Jude had prepared himself for all manner of chiding and condemnation, but perhaps that was just because he was doing enough of it himself.

"I didn't wanna make it harder for you," his voice wobbles out, not quite ready to talk about Sohalia or his dad yet and focusing on the last piece. "I keep tryin' not to be a burden, but everyone keeps leaving anyway." He'd even aged up the second time because he could see how his dad was hurting and struggling after the war, and still it hadn't helped, because, "Everyone just seems to want to be anywhere but with me." His tears come back hot against his cheeks, but at least they're silent painful things instead of the sobs that had nearly shaken him apart. "But I don't know how to fix it anymore. I don't know what to do." All he'd known was that his mom would have the answers.

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?