Who ? Felix, Ramsey, Open Where ? The House On Ulm Street When ? Thursday night What ? Felix HAS to see the bloody mattress.
From the agony I have been through for no reason whatever I can only come to the logical conclusion that if there is a god that he is not so good as is made out.
He stared at the door. The seventeenth minute going on the eighteenth. His words droned in his ears, a steady and incessant hum that aggravated him as much as the desire pulled at his skin. "Wine is fine but whiskey's quicker. Suicide is slow with liquor. Take a bottle and drown your sorrows then it floods away tomorrows. Wine is fine but whiskey's quicker. Suicide is slow with liquor. Take a bottle and drown your sorrows then it floods away tomorrows."
The thrumming mantra cut short suddenly as he drew in a deep breathe and held it. Felix Harper King dropped to a crouch there after, suddenly, as if all the bones in his legs had suddenly vanished at once. He dug his fingers into his scalp, tangled them in his hair, and growled.
Certain tragedy. That was what the House on Ulm Street promised him.
Certain tragedy. It wasn't always a bad thing. Drawn and repulsed at the same time. Cold from fear and desperate in want at the same time.
"I looked upon the scene before me --upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain --upon the bleak walls --upon the vacant eye-like windows --upon a few rank sedges --and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees --with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium --the bitter lapse into everyday life --the hideous dropping off of the veil."
Suddenly, he slapped both of his hands against the door, it was sort of a knock, and looked up with a vicious bearing of his teeth. It would be enough or not at all. Not enough and he would tuck, turn, and go. Enough and he would stand and, despite the disarray of his dirtied attire, stride over the threshold without fear. To the mattress. To the blood. Forgo the anamnesis of heart-pounding, desire-for-life-affirming fright and give in to the call of the blooming memory of promised death.