Fox's Glade saying fuck your name

its fine dw— also we can fade here and ill start us a evien/toad/taylor thread in the valley if that sounds good? 

Dragging himself up, first by one arm and then by the other, it strikes him how much he hates the person in front of him. How much he wants to violently conjoin his skull with the ground several times in quick succession. 
His hands shudder. The scene replays over and over again in his head like a corrupted disc, stuttering. In his head, he's already digging up the dirt. I'd like you to follow me, he says, still smooth, still polite. As if the fight had been a brief but vivid hallucination, springing in and out, cat burglar style. 
Blood is dripping slowly from the cut in his throat. It stains him like some depraved and perverted bib. On their way to the valley, the leave a trail of careless red.