Almost immediately after their arrival, Darragh had sought out the study and was immediately disappointed. More of a home office than the type of study Darragh had come to appreciate, this barren room was furnished with only a desk, desktop computer, and a smattering of truly awful quasi-literature.
Taking a seat behind the grotesque, minimally modern desk, Darragh's eyes sought out the small knife which rested upon the table. Out of a peculiar mixture of habit, guilt, and grief, he picked it up. Pressing the end of the blade against the skin of his forearm, he once again took up the habit of scrawling his daughter's name into his flesh. He'd failed her in life; he wouldn't let himself forget her in death. Not, at least, until her soul was set free and she was at peace.
Darragh's head
