I never agreed to go anywhere with this skinny old bat. She was a ghoul, now I think on it; a walking corpse. Twig toes too brittle to break, and eyeless holes where smug ocular sockets should be. She put it on me straight away, how I'd be better off dead. I was jackdaw-eyes, she told me - me, a pretty thing! I saw how he touched her: she was soft. And as soon as he left, she looked like she might break down in sobs. I wanted to tell her, "lamb, don't try to sell your charms to him; he wants to see you suffer.". I wanted to strike her with a bucket of lime, smash her into so much glass I could barely recognise her, or break her bones and bury her in the sand.
My toolkit is rich as Croesus, maybe, but it's dwarfed by that of the Croesus himself. I can't possibly hope to match that, and it's not for lack of trying. Poor me - not for the first time a collector has out-produced me. I'll never create the sort of work he does. He's a true artist, I'm just a mite more vicious.
I've been sitting here for over five hours, but this is precisely where my patience runs out. I'm scraping dead skin from my skin, and with each scrape a piece of myself goes with it. These croesus are so petty and cheesy. These tools feel like they've been made for children, for people whose hands have grown too big. I feel like hitting something, and will likely, if not restrained, shortly find myself in front of this mindless sack of dead meats. My hands are shaking in fury. d2c66b5586