7:26

No, he hadn’t asked for it, but now that it was there, he might as well use it. Using things was really what Jakob did best.

First things first. It needs a name: a label. Hard to dish out orders if no one is listening. And you can’t guarantee they’ll be listening unless you take matters into your own hands. So. A name, a label, a title as it were. Several options twisted silently across Jakob’s tongue until one dripped off the tip. Shithead. Short, to the point, and useful as a reminder. Haid for public consumption; something to twist the blade and yet offer some small bit of hope.

Hope was also something Jacob understood. He had never encountered it; in fact, hope mostly felt it a mythological creature always spoken of in hushed tones, but never quite there, never quite real. But hope was the whip that drove his will over what obstacles the universe tried to throw in his face. Hope was the dream that could be used, crushed and then used again. Hope was an unending source of power to those who used it and an unquenchable source of weakness and espalier to those who would be used by it.

And hope is what would serve best to break this new beast of burden. A thorn bridle with velvet ties: unending pain with just enough softness to inspire an imaginary surcease.

Haid. It was done.