1. B hates his walls. He hates them less now, all stained and splattered and cracked and creaking, but he hates them as powerfully as a man has ever hated a barricade of plaster.
2. B regrets, whimsically, that there is a limit to the amount of words one can spell (all around the walls, dripping and red and ugly) when one's limited to a single letter. In fact, the limit is nothing (like it always is), so he's reduced to simply writing the letter in different ways; cursive, upside-down, Chinese, Greek, Neo-Latin. But it's only a letter, after all-- just two strokes of his pale spider fingers, over and over and over again.
3. They don't bother to stop him when he spits his blood onto the floor in waves, biting his raw fleshy lips until they break, and they won't stop him writing; when they bound his skinless arms into a straitjacket, callous and abrasive, it scrapes away at his exposed, fire-torn muscles and stains his world. No matter how many times they change it, it's soaked through with blood before the sedative wears off.
4. Nothing stops B—when the nerves in his fingers grind themselves away, he bites his tongue and makes it bleed, and writes to L that way.
5. "The letter L is derived ultimately from the Semitic crook which stood for I," B explains dazedly when they come in and look at him, though his tongue is torn and his throat is dry and his flesh is burned away. "This originally may have been based on an Egyptian hieroglyph that was adapted by Semites for alphabetic purposes. The Greek letter Lambda--"
6. He hears that there is no C. After himself, every Whammy's child was given a code name rather than assigned a letter. B finds this ridiculous.
7. "Have you secured the financial future of your family?" He asks the doctor as he performs a routine physical. The man gives him a wary look, and B smiles lazily. "Pity…"
8. He wonders if the dolls were a bit much, after all. Perhaps he should have just crucified his victims, it's all hammers and nails anyway... and this leads to an interesting train of thought involving the various ways he could have gone about nailing himself to a wall.
9. It's his birthday. The thought makes him laugh, a vicious grating howl that careens from his walls and stains the silence down the hall.
10. B heard L's voice for the last time at his bitter mockery of a trial, vibrating through a set of speakers in hollow metal tones. The voice was methodical and brief, so unassuming that he would have wondered whether L had actually designed the computer to speak for him if he didn't know better. But he listened; he strained, leaning forward and looking interested for the first time since they'd dragged him into this room smelling of dust and justice, and he heard the human inside the machine. And B couldn't help but laugh—because even though he'd failed, it seemed he'd still won.
11. He's amazed, thoroughly mystified, at the sheer amount of people in the world who introduce themselves by names other than the one hovering accusingly above their heads.
12. B can see seven ways he could easily escape from this "institution for the criminally insane," and twelve more that would only be of moderate difficultly. He spends a lot of his time attempting to figure out what he would do if he ever bothered—nothing comes to mind, so he stays.
13. He feels his chest constrict and he laughs yet again, because it means there's another, more perfect crime that L has failed to solve. He dies content in his own lack of humanity.