I laughed as I imagined you weak. Your pathetic self twitching and whining on your kitchen floor. Then I saw you in mind, wasting away with some strange disease. You were venerable, with blanched skin and raised mounds of purple and blue covering your body. You gasped for breath on the hospital bed, the needles injecting Satan-knows-what into your wavering existence. And I laughed because if it were true, you deserved all of that and more.
You used to tell me I was the weak one and you, the strong. I would always be sick and pale, with cold hands wrapped around your untouchable immune system. You would hold me.
Then I heard. The strong man! The untouchable, vibrant, perfect immune man! He was down! Fell like a tower or cards in the wind. He fainted like the weak yellow-skinned boy he had always been on the inside.
And I laughed because I had really been the strong one. I had endured while he fell to the vicious buyer of souls. I laughed because it was ironic, and I laughed because it rang true.