Wilhelm was usually that type too. Growing up, he became an expert in carrying around every hurt that he felt until he couldn't bear the weight of it anymore, but he didn't know how to offload it. He's better now at getting it off his chest, but it's still hard sometimes to put it all into words.

So, screaming he rampages through the rosebushes. When his breath cuts ragged, and his skin bears angry red lines from the thorns fighting back, he stops to survey the damage. Half-molted roses droop from bent stems. A carnage of petals covers the ground. The blank nothingness creeps closer, erasing more of Kell's creation.

Sorry, he thinks, before glancing back over his shoulder at Chris.

"Not really. But at least it's out there and not in me anymore."