Most of the time I feel like I don't really remember much about that night. I know what happened, but I don't remember doing a lot of it. There wasn't time to be anything but fast. Fast or dead.
[He pauses, drifting on that train of thought for a minute. There's a lot he can't say, he knows, without giving up too much on the nature of his Stand, on the grim and unsettling details of how so much of that fight really went. And he of all people knows with painful clarity how even a single word can open the floodgates that way, so there's a lot that he could try to explain, but won't.
Maybe he will someday, but as Giorno has said himself — there just hasn't been time to know each other very well yet. Giorno doesn't feel like a stranger, but a lot of this isn't something he'd have an easy time dropping on his closest friend, much less anyone more distant than that.
Especially not when the villain of the tale in question happens to be that person's estranged father. There's no way to soften that, and he thinks that even if Giorno wouldn't necessarily want him to soften it, that doesn't mean he shouldn't try. It's cruel in a way that sits badly with him, to do otherwise.]
I remember I stopped my heart. He thought I was dead, so if he'd heard my heart beating, it would've been over. So I stopped it. From beating.
[And that's the other facet of the difficulty he faces in remembering that night: when he says aloud the things he'd done, he sees them with clarity now, and has the space to really understand how wrong it is to recount them so matter-of-factly.]
It's hard to tell people something like that, isn't it?
action
[He pauses, drifting on that train of thought for a minute. There's a lot he can't say, he knows, without giving up too much on the nature of his Stand, on the grim and unsettling details of how so much of that fight really went. And he of all people knows with painful clarity how even a single word can open the floodgates that way, so there's a lot that he could try to explain, but won't.
Maybe he will someday, but as Giorno has said himself — there just hasn't been time to know each other very well yet. Giorno doesn't feel like a stranger, but a lot of this isn't something he'd have an easy time dropping on his closest friend, much less anyone more distant than that.
Especially not when the villain of the tale in question happens to be that person's estranged father. There's no way to soften that, and he thinks that even if Giorno wouldn't necessarily want him to soften it, that doesn't mean he shouldn't try. It's cruel in a way that sits badly with him, to do otherwise.]
I remember I stopped my heart. He thought I was dead, so if he'd heard my heart beating, it would've been over. So I stopped it. From beating.
[And that's the other facet of the difficulty he faces in remembering that night: when he says aloud the things he'd done, he sees them with clarity now, and has the space to really understand how wrong it is to recount them so matter-of-factly.]
It's hard to tell people something like that, isn't it?