Damon screams even louder in my head as the first slashes rake into his face. But eventually, he shuts up. Because he has no tongue. Or eyes. Or nose. He is a floating, shredded, featureless mess of meat. A delightfully, deliciously, magnificently amateur skinning. There’s not even enough of a face left to take and preserve—it’s like it never existed. He deserves nothing better than this botched practice job. He was a learning tool and nothing more. And I feel calmer. Clearer. Quieter.
