The answer Arsène offered him was not nearly enough to satiate his desire for answers, for some sort of justification as to why it was okay to murder an innocent child. “I suppose that’s something only more enlightened individuals are able to understand . . . I was brought up to believe that killing children was abhorrent, but I suppose times are changing rather quickly with these witch hunts, aren’t they?” He commented quietly as he picked up with running his hand delicately up and down his mutilated torso again. He was rather well spoken for an individual of such limited means; in truth it had to do with the constant soft whisperings in his head, they’d taught him quite a bit over the years, and he’d also picked up an extensive vocabulary from listening to folks chattering as they wandered down the street around him.<br/><br/>He leaned back again and listened to the priest’s brief ramblings about death, and the promise that it was not the worst thing that could happen. Felix would have to disagree, as he quite liked living despite the discomforts it sometimes bestowed upon him, and he had to believe that Arsène would disagree as well were he placed into Felix’ shoes. There was something so simple about talking about death when one was detached from it; it was easy to displace oneself from it if the one dying wasn’t themselves or somebody they loved, and he had to believe that this was what was allowing the holy man to speak about it so flippantly. The idea of his own death caused his gut to roil, and it caused the soft whispering in his head to grow stronger and more insistent, forcing him to close his eyes momentarily lest they begin to tear up from the sudden throbbing in his head.<br/><br/>He opened his eyes when the man began to speak once again and he was met with the sight of him reaching out towards him. He flinched slightly in response to the unannounced touch, but that was the only reaction he offered, and it wasn’t necessarily because the touch was being administered by a man of the church. He wasn’t used to being touched, so of course he’d have the mildest of adverse effects in response. He thought on the question, and sighed softly as he recalled the moment he received the fresher scars on his face, but he didn’t have time to respond before the second question was posed, luckily enough it tied in with his first answer, so he didn’t fret about it too much.<br/><br/>“For most of them I’m not entirely in control,” he murmured, a frown having taken over his features “I feel ever movement, taste every drop of blood, but I have no say in the fact that I am wounding myself, consuming my flesh.” The boy sighed heavily and he kept his gaze trained levelly on Arsene. “Occasionally, though, I am more or less present. It’s those time that I feel a heat inside of me; a fire, burning in the pit of my chest or the depths of my stomach. These ones on my face are from a time when I could feel the flames rising in my throat, through my head. The heat was so intense, the pain so great, I couldn’t stop myself from tearing at my own flesh, trying to rid myself of it. I just wanted it to end, I didn’t care about the fate of my flesh or the wrongdoings I was committing unto my own body. I wanted the pain to go away, even if it meant I died in the process,” he explained quietly, slowly reaching down to gather his legs into his arms and hug them up tightly to his chest. The thought of the event made his stomach flip uncomfortable and a soft shudder ran through his frail body as his dark eyes averted themselves from Arsene. Thinking back on that event he realized that the priest was right, death wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, but then he still believed he’d prefer life despite the torture he endured.