#oops um

-locks the door-

-grabs a pillow off the bed-

-curls up with it on the floor-

Nothing like good, old-fashioned torture, Pestilence thinks as he revels in the sensation of sawing clean through bone, palms sticky with red. He's painted in it. The Rack is, too - and maybe the horseman is about disease and rot and decay, but he can't deny that this is satisfying. The soul before him cries in anguish, and he's sharply reminded of how unbecoming this is. Smiles anyway. Wipes his face into a scarlet smudge.

pls

let it be good