Phantom Hollow a slab in the morgue

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Snap, snap—nothing.

Snap snap snap—it was like playing hungry hungry crocodile, but not a single mouthful could be had.

He struggled under the weight of her, gradually giving up his effort to grab with his teeth and chose to kick and flail instead; even this was a pain, and not a single kick of his limbs landed on the fleshy, furry thing looming over him. It wasn't until she'd detangled herself and begun screeching at him that the boy clued in—but he wasn't in any greater mood because of it.

She spat insults and recoiled, but didn't leave. He, meanwhile, pulled himself free of his frosted mooring and stumbled haphazardly backwards. Soon there was quite a gap between them but the boy didn't feel any safer: if anything, the immense darkness on his right side made him more paranoid. He began to turn his head more frequently to catch glimpses in his good eye, but saw there were only trees and areas of packed snow around him.

...that mangled mess you call a face—and don’t even get me started with the side you’re missing an eye on. She spat venom as if his very existence was a fault in the consistency of the universe, and he bared his fangs in retort, the fur along his back prickling as he ducked his head. Shut—shut—shut up! Shut your fucking mouth! Maybe he'd meant to say these things to Hydra when she had initially put his eyeballs on her Christmas wish-list, but he hadn't been able to.

The fuck -- the fuck is wrong with you?! Jumpin' a guy. If you're not here to -- to kill me, then,  fuck, go back to fuckin' Moonspear! He wasn't about to let some random black bitch get the best of him, not again,
—not ever.