Wren crouches in front of me now, head tilted like a puppet with a broken neck. “Do you want me to hurt him again?” he asks softly. “I’ll do it better this time. Slower. I’ll make him spill all his red blood, and paint the floor and walls with it. I promise, I can draw you a pretty picture, dolly.“ Behind him, the orderly groans, still alive, barely. I’m so distracted that I hadn’t even realized he was regaining consciousness.
