No one questioned the bandages securing the burns on my fingers and hands. That was for the best, as I wasn't sure how I would explain it to them anyway. They probably assumed I burned them getting scones from the oven, and I would go along with that story; I was positive they would try to stop my self-mutilation. I'm not self-hating or depressed. It's just that pain is all I really have anymore.

Pain and Francis. But Francis confuses me. Pain doesn't; it's solid, consistent.

World Meetings were not what I looked forward to. They never had been. It was much harder to sit through them now, though. Having read a lot, I know for a fact that sociopaths and psychopaths have a distinctive quality: lack of emotion. Well, technically psychopaths do in fact have emotions, but they're much more primitive; they don't feel things like guilt or grief, but they do feel more basic ones like anger. Regardless, the last thing I wanted was for them to get suspicious and start spying on me to make sure I didn't go on a killing spree or some nonsense. Because then they would see what I do to myself and take it away.

Alfred began babbling about superheroes saving the world, and I wondered how he ended up like that, seeing as I raised him. Obsessed with heroism. Does he even know what being a hero really means, what it entails? I doubted it.

A tiny voice from my amygdala* made itself heard. Maybe if you'd been there to actually raise him, not just keep him hostage in your house...

Shut up, amygdala.

Francis wasn't his normal self. That invoked more stirrings, but this was completely different from the first two that cropped up. This one felt sort of like I was sinking. Needless to say, it was unpleasant, but still, refreshing. Anything new was a relief.

Francs slid a folded piece of paper to me, and I set down my cup of tea to unfold it. As I expected, he had written me a little note. "You've been really weird lately. What's wrong, Angleterre?"

Oh God, why didn't I anticipate this? He was the person who'd known me the longest; practically forever, and I really didn't expect him to notice something was off? Instead I responded, "DON'T CALL ME THAT, GIT. Nothing's wrong."

He read it and gave me a look that screamed disbelief. I just raised an eyebrow and turned my attention back to the presentations. But as I lifted the teacup to my lips, Francis jostled my elbow and the tea spilled all over my shirt—very expensive shirt, I might add. Under which were some fairly fresh cuts that were not quite healed shut.

Carefully but quickly, I pulled the shirt away from my chest and growled, "Bloody wanker." I picked up my suitcase and ran off to the restroom. Luckily I had packed another shirt. Never know when you might need one.

There was no one else in the restroom, and I was fairly certain no one would be coming in, but I locked the door anyway. I took off the tea soaked shirt and had no idea what to do with it, as the tea stain would be permanent by now, just rolled it in some paper towels and stuffed it into my suitcase. Having done that, I stood in front of the mirror to examine my injuries. Some of the tea had seeped inside and induced some bleeding. I held a paper towel to it, hoping it wouldn't bleed for long so the others wouldn't get suspicious.

I was startled by the rattling sound of the doorknob. You idjit, Arthur, you know you locked it. Stop freaking out.

Yet within a matter of seconds the door opened and I didn't have time to cover up.

I saw some long blonde hair, which I recognized to be Francis'. His eyes wide and eyebrows tilted upward. He only caught a glimpse before I found something to prevent his seeing me like this.

It was enough.

Those wide eyes stared at me, and that sinking feeling got deeper and deeper.

"Angleterre..."

*The amygdala is a small section of the brain, responsible mainly for controlling negative emotions.