I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid a hand-on.

[NotAFlyingToy]

((Hansel Williams, I don't feel we did wrong.))

It looked like there had been a murder in the upper floor bathroom, but Hansel didn't have time to clean up after himself.

The bathroom was large and faux-marble, with two dead lights and a small window where the light still shone strong. Blood covered the counter, the sink bowl, parts of the mirror as he curled his remaining two fingers on his left hand into a fist, his boot stamping lightly when the pain started shooting through his hand.

On the counter stood an open med-kit - Virgil's - and bandage wrappers, gauze, cleaning alcohol, blood stained medical scissors. He'd cut off the skin around his fingers that lay jagged and severed, made it a much cleaner cut - through his own growls of pain and clenched jaw. Next, he'd dabbed at the wound with gauze soaked in alcohol, enduring the bite of the cleansing process.

It wasn't a great job, he thought to himself, studying the bandages that turned his hand into half a club. The actual bandage only covered the bottom half of his hand, to keep his thumb and remaining fingers clear for use. It wouldn't heal very well this way, but he didn't need it to heal.

He just needed to keep it clean for a few more days. Just a few more days, and it wouldn't matter either way - he'd be home, or he'd be dead.

He didn't bother packing the med-kit back up. It was Virgil's, and he still had a full one waiting to be cracked open. He indulged in a bottle of water, finished off the last of his lasagna by picking it up cold and shovelling it into his mouth.

He tried not to think about how the cheese looked like the floor where he'd picked up his fingers - bile, blood, linoleum, all rolled into one.

He tried not to think about how his tally was now eight.

Re-adjusting the stetson on his head, Hansel frowned at his reflection, marred by a patch of wet blood he didn't bother to wipe off.

Long face, crooked nose, bags under dark brown eyes. Thinned out cheeks, marred by a single, still oozing cut that he hadn't bandaged. An unkempt, shaggy cluster of facial hair that seemed patchy and disturbed in the dim light. Sweaty, dirty rings fell into the creases of his neck, soaking the front of his new shirt.

He used to be able to look into glass, and see his father.

Now, his Pa was nowhere to be found. Instead of seeing a strong, confident man, he saw a boy. A confused boy, with missing fingers, wounds and aches, and a fistful of nightmares. A weakening boy, close to a nervous breakdown due to lack of sleep and tightening resolve.

A boy on the verge of going off the edge.

He packed up, leaving the med-kit behind, but tossing his bag and his Winchester over opposing shoulders. In his hands, he cradled the Saiga-12, complete with fresh magazine, and took comfort in it.

Hansel left the bathroom, to find a place to bed down.

To find a place he hopefully wouldn't dream.

((Hansel Williams, I Was Once Alive))