Explore lashing

It was nearing 8:00 PM. Eli was back in his and Larry’s room. Larry was already asleep and Eli lay on his back in bed, holding his arms up in front of his face, inspecting the stitched up holes in his wrists which he could see now that the gauze had been removed. A service provider had taken scissors to it earlier in the day. He would have permanent scars—that is, if the wounds even healed. If he lived long enough for them to heal. He ran his fingers over his forehead, feeling the gashes that, despite time and a seemingly endless supply of antiseptic, were still etched into his skin, fresh as ever. As if overpowered by a sudden f