Reaction
[The story burned gel'd red in his mind, bright, spastic, cauterizing. Damian, who was playing his violin, breaks the strings of his bow in a screech. And it should not have, but the story—a harbinger—brought with it a nosebleed—of the sort that simply began, without pain, without apparent reason, that one only discovered when blood dripped down onto one's hoodie, a darker red than the story, but richer, and one reached up to touch one's nose. —The few others in the rec room looked at him warily, as if fearing he had been bitten, stung, or perhaps was having a stroke or other medical emergency.
But, Damian remained upright. He dragged the violin and bow, his path marked in droplets of blood, and he left the room. He knew the voice, and he knew—or, his panicked mind thought it knew—that he had to get away from people, lest she make him kill them. So, he had retreated. He was not allowed to go to his room until bedtime, but he went. Blood spattered like paint down his chin, onto his shirt. He closed the bedroom door behind him. It bore no lock, so he went to the foot of the bed, dropping instrument with a jagged clang of notes, and curled into himself on the floor, hoping this would pass.]