His anatomy offends you. It’s supple in excess, soft to a fault, absurd in its frailty. His flesh offers no resistance under your thumb. It gives. It catches. It ruptures. His expression twists into a grimace. Blood flows from the scratch and trickles down his face. Past his cheek, to his jaw, towards his neck. His skin blooms red as it starts bruising. It’ll turn purple then yellow then vanish. Soon, there’ll be nothing left of you. He grabs your wrist. You only notice once you see his fingers closed around it. The tips are white. Nothing but scraps. His nail grates you and he hisses through his teeth. Steel filings.