I really do love The Flower from Hell that Grows Under Your Skin. I think about it a lot for Prof. Sallow as something that he's convinced himself he's not uncomfortable with, even when it writhes under his skin in the presence of sunlight (or Dawnlight, or sunlight remembered). Sometimes it can be protective: if someone were to try to wring his neck, they'd be met with bloody fingers pierced through with hooked thorns, and Prof. Sallow would bear a ring of bloody pin-prick scars around his neck for weeks afterwards. But even when it's not being protective, it still moves, still pierces through the skin, just about whenever it feels like it: his arms are never without some amount of blood. You would think he would cover up, but really, he's put it so far out of his mind that he'll actually get kind of mad if someone mentions that he's bleeding.
