"Yes," said Solomon, "that's the problem." He pushed himself upright and sat up straight, elbows resting on the chair's arms, and looked Skulduggery right in his empty eye-sockets. "You never expect a murder victim to forgive their attacker, so you didn't give him the chance, let alone the consideration. He was the one who was wronged, yet because you expected nothing from him you turned the entire charade into being about his murderer. Why do you think Bakura trusts no one, disdains all? It's people like you who have taught him his pain is only relevant when it pains those who hurt him."

Solomon was drunk, but his anger was cold rather than hot; precise and almost calculating, if a drunken man could be said to be calculating at all. "And it's not him, either. You do the same to yourself. You haven't even told your friends about what you did, have you? Of course not. Because you make assumptions for them, dismiss their feelings and their pain, and make it your own. Yes, you poor thing. How sad for you to be powerful and talented and respected, and how we should pity you for the mistakes you've made, instead of grieve for the people you hurt."