His name tells him he's a healer.
It must be a joke, it must be a mockery of him. To think he'd ever be capable of healing others' while he's broken beyond repair.
It's a sick joke. A sick, sick joke. So he laughs about it.
He's ashamed to admit that he cries sometimes about it, too.
But when he sees blood, for a split second, it connects. What he read in some book from that big ol' library in that big ol' house all that time ago, safe and warm and not alone, it clicks.
Sometimes healing doesn't tend to wounds. Doesn't fade scars.
Sometimes, justice is healing.
And justice is pain. Justice is karma.
Karma's in his hands.
He cocks the handle, exactly how he was trained.
