He runs down the thickly bloody plains of the metaphor, a scream stuck in his esophagus.
The first human reaction - panic.
The seconds tick by like frozen oil in his mind as the irrational fear grips his throat. There is good news and darkness, hell or high water - and he is cold, cold and bloody.
The blazing eyes.
It is the schism between madness and sanity - light and dark, whole and shattered. Those blazing eyes, tormenting him, following him. His favourite disease.
Favourite. And frozen favourites find, falling, the weariness in stalking the prey - hunting, wrestling, grappling...
Recording. The storm of blades in his heart at each new failure nearly crush him. And yet, failure is a sweet, sweet sorrow after all - there's always the next time, of course. Next time, when the black gloves crush his spirit, and he is left with nothing at all save to lash out in the only way he can.
Is it healthy to hate one's own species?
Dib sighs, and sinks to the floor, still clutching the worn photograph in his thin hand and ravaged heart. There is a house for his heart of broken glass - and he saves the ones he hates the most, just to be doing something.
There is no better teacher than hatred.