After you've torn into a person's skin, pressed them down and broken them until they didn't fight back, put your lips to the spurting wound, desperate not to waste it while it was still warm- after all of that, little compunctions and niceties were absurd. you'd travelled so far beyond them. Or beneath them, he thought, his head clear enough at the moment to acknowledge it.
And there was George hysterical that he, Mitchell, didn't do the marigolds. He remembered lying back, rendered senseless with Daisy. Licking blood off of each other like animals. Yes, he couldn't go from that to three kinds of carpet cleaner and always-scrub-the-dishes-anti-clockwise or whatever the fuck George said. In bed, every inch slick with blood, reveling. It was a wonder that such a creature could get up on two legs like a man, dress, comb his hair and walk the streets. He looked just like anyone else, and not so very different from the young man who died in World War I, but inside was a still heart and stagnant blood stolen from what were now grisly fragments scattered across a train compartment.