Assuming that he's being taunted, he lifts his head to lob a glare up at Lucifer — though with his eyes a wobbly red, it's about as effective as chucking a wet piece of paper.

"I already said I can't, I can't remember."

He spits the words out like broken teeth. He hadn't actually said it. He hadn't wanted to confess to the loneliness in which he's cloistered, but now it's coming up.

"I don't... They're not my friends. They don't know me, nobody knows me."

Burying his face in his hands, he tries to regulate his breathing, which has gone all gulping-and-gasping hysterical. The fucked up thing is, no matter how furious he is at Lucifer, no matter how wounded he is by the knife in his back, he still craves his reassurance. Nobody else will tell him that it's going to be okay.