I’m jostled left and right, but I can’t stop staring at the pool of blood expanding beneath the man’s worn leather coat. And I don’t know why, but all I can think is that it’s a hot day to be wearing leather. A redheaded woman in a jogging suit crouches low and presses her fingers to the man’s neck—a neck covered in tattoos. She nods, and two construction workers rush to help. As the man is flipped onto his back, a crumpled piece of paper tumbles out of his blood-soaked hand. Only he’s not a man. There’s so much blood—it drips from a wound under his hair, soaking his tangled black waves; it flows freely from his left ear, from his broken nose, from a gravelly laceration on his cheek; it coats the Ramones T-shirt that clings to his thin frame—but beneath the injuries is very clearly a seventeen-year-old—maybe eighteen-year-old—boy. Someone screams, a high-pitched, strangled sound that rises above the other voices, the orders being called out, the wail of a siren.
What do You think about Blackwood: A Hexed Story (2015)?
