Rehab: Misha B & Damian W
[The mirror was being pulled apart by Damian. He had prised the reflective acrylic from the plastic frame and he had snapped it, cracked it, as if it were an egg and Alyssa a yolk that might come out runny. He, the man, was in his black—hoodie, t-shirt, jeans, socks, shoes. Red ran from his nose like a ribbon, like a river, like the runoff from the slaughterhouse. The violin laid still where he had dumped it, along with the fettered bow. He was busy, frantic in his destruction, enough so that it took even his very acute senses a moment to snare on the arrival of...] Misha. [Damian was wild-eyed, whites frothing wide. Notably, however, he was not crying.—That light, the power of it, was nearly overwhelming, and the man stared, frozen in his mirror demolition.
Tendrils of that song, the cat-screech fiddling, played and played in his head, lifting up, then falling silent. Lifting up, falling silent.—Still, even in his fear, even with the bearing down and eking of madness, like it was birthright, Damian was coherent.] So you have spoken with her.