'A Wolfman Living Without Water', Red read, then read on.
'He gnashes his parched muzzle, with his tongue, like sandpaper, languishing stiff inside. Were you to run a hand across his back his fur would be bristly and dry – easily removed from his flesh by a mere brush. His cabin is covered by the product of his moulting as he shuffles from one side to another, waiting for something.
He's unsure why he began this experiment in the first place, but senses that it is coming to its inevitable conclusion. He imagines a wind across the scorched earth outside. As it picks up, fiercely gusting, it takes, one by one, the panels of his cabin and scatters them like a vapour trail across the desert. When this wind comes and strips his cabin bare, it will reveal his bare and powdered bones lying in the centre.
Perhaps, upon discovering his bones they will consider his actions a metaphor. He wheezes. Of course they aren't. They are the product of the purest pain one can feel. Simultaneously well defined and inexact. He feels as though he could cut himself open and remove the lump if it did not spread across his entire form. How do you amputate yourself? The Wolfman had found a way. He felt the last drops of life drying up and slowly curled upon the ground to await the close.'
'She's dumped you again, then?' Asked Red.
Francis nodded almost imperceptibly.
'Why are you a wolf-man in this one?' Asks Red eventually, sighing.
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