When I tell him that I've come to take the bandages off, he stiffens and backs away. He tells me not to. There's a look of fear on his face that hasn't been there since he first came here; his eyes dart left and right and I think he's looking for a way out.

I tell him everything's going to be fine. He gives no resistance, and lets me get close, so I take his jacket off. Once his arms are free, he wraps them around himself and shakes his head. "It'll hurt again, I'm feeling it already."

Although he lets me get close, he flinches when I reach for his arm, and moans in frustration. "Why do you have to do this?" He pleads, and a tear slips down his cheek.

Because, I say, nothing can stay covered forever. He shakes his head, "Please, no," and more tears fall, which he reaches up to wipe away. As he does this, I take his hand, and he lets me do; but I can tell he's just trying to be brave, because he's tense and shaking.

"Don't tear it off too fast," he cautions me, and I humor him by asking why. He tells me it will hurt worse.

I promise him it won't. Tell me about Mrs. Lovett, I say, you always like to speak of her. She was in his best memories, he'd always say. A ghost of a smile plays at the corner of his lips, and he shuts his eyes.

"She was knitting me a muffler, and I'd sit by her so as she could get the size of it right."

While he lapses into happy memories, I start to unwrap the bandage. When he first got here, his eyes were wide with terror, and he was screaming. There was blood everywhere.

"Mum lets me help around the shop, with the customers." He opens his eyes and nods, paying no attention to my work. "Always so many customers." A shiver wracked his body and he shut his eyes against it.

"She's so kind, but she was always being kind to him," he tries to assure himself, but he's shaking again as worse memories begin to surface. "He'd make her do it! He harms them all!"

I remind him that he used to help Mrs. Lovett with the pies, trying to calm him down. I brush his hair out of his face and he leans into the touch. Once he is silent, I go back to the bandages.

By the time we'd managed to get him tied down, my white jacket had been smeared with red.

"Before I was with her, I don' know how she was. But she was always kind to me, had a warm heart."

There had been blood on my collar from when he had grabbed me and pleaded for us to help him, that it was Mr. Todd, that "he's killed her."

He doesn't even notice what I'm doing now, so lost in thought.

We'd stopped the bleeding and put the boy under. The room was a mess from the struggle, and my ears still rang from his screaming. His skin had gone much paler, and cold, and we're stitching up the jagged razor marks that cut deep, deep into his wrist.

"She let me live with her after Signor Pirelli, but it was Mr. Todd." He clenches his fist and tries to pull his arm away. I grab him before he can, jerk his arm once and tell him to hold still.

"But Mr. Todd did it!" He screams, and tries again to pull away. He's frantic now and I'm trying to get him to look.

The first time he wakes up, he's tied down, and panics. I put my hand on his chest and speak with him until he hears me. There's nothing in here that's gonna harm him, and I point to his wrist, thickly bandaged. He stares, and I touch his forehead and he shuts his eyes, leans in to my touch and asks me to stay with him. I tell him of my other duties and he goes silent and looks back at the bandage.

Now we're both sitting on the floor, his head against my chest, my arms around his body, and his head tucked below my chin. It's what he's asked me to do for him, so politely, and I obliged. He's staring at the pink scars on his wrists, rocking slightly against me, and tells me it doesn't hurt.