The blood on his hands doesn't feel good at all, but it does feel right. If he can't throw these stones, he can split his skin trying--he drinks from it, the dizziness, the darkness, the self-consumption of it. You know that he does this for you. For you. Guilt is a feeling that comes from without, from others, from there being people to hurt at all--if he were alone, maybe, maybe, maybe. Spend all his days penitent and self-flagellant and it will never work but at least he'd be alone. He moves to strike the bricks, either his flesh will give or it will give him stones, God, he can't move, God, you know how he hates. It's worth it. Keeps himself in check. Better himself than others. Better this. Always did have a temper--no thing worth breaking, no man worth hating--hit it again, hit it again, hit it again, hit it again, move your hands, for God's sake, move your hands--



He screams.

And he takes a breath, and he groans and shrieks, and he screams again. And--