He thought then, of when his sister had found him with a knife in hand, watching as rivets of blood ran down his wrist. Crimson drops had dripped on to the porcelain floor, a picture he found prettier than he cared to admire. She’d taken the knife from him, just as she’d taken his soul, and wrapped his wrist with strips of her nightgown, before pulling him down to the bloodied floor beside her. "You need to be good, Tom," she’d told him solemnly, and fixed her eyes upon him. "You can’t do this - you can’t misbehave."