You'd gotten into a mess. Your fiance had insisted that you call his younger brother and convince him to come to your wedding, but things went poorly. His younger brother was a mess, depressed, unpredictable and angry at his brother Johnny for the accident that lost his hand and his bride in one fell swoop. Somehow you'd convinced the man to talk to you. You sit in his apartment now, his canaries twittering in their cage, his walls lined with Opera posters, his bed messy but cozy. He frowns at you and crosses his arms childishly. "I'm not going to your wedding. I lost my life, my hand, my girl...and Johnny has a perfectly good life and hand..." His frown deepens, "And a girl like you..."