This is for you, you fucking dipshit. This is for that plastic uniform smile you wear when you order that same goddamn latte. This is for yelling at me when I really tried and for talking through Die Hard. This is for that fucking workout routine you lord over me, for always calling when I’m busy and for never calling when I’m lonesome. What I’m doing is because of what you’ve done to me. And now you’ll see how far it’s gone.

He drew back and remembered.

One hour and seventeen minutes later, the scene had changed. The door had a line dented into its wooden structure and its lock needed replacing. The ventilation fan hummed at the horrified silence.

He’d used a lot of blood. Most had gone to further filling the bath. Some went to hand-wiping a name onto the white tiled wall in big blocky letters. And just enough remained to power the lightpole erection that his clammy hands had collapsed against.