The only recognisation George got was a short glance that Mitchell threw into his direction. He stayed where he was and his eyes lingered on the blood again. "What if it lasts a month or a year? I could just go outside George. I didn't need to hurt anyone. I wouldn't." It wasn't fair. The way it was now. That he had to stand here and ponder how he could feel like while people like Cutler were out enjoying themselves. Why was it so fucking hard to be good?