Michael could never face you, his lover, again. He was rotting, necrosis taking over his body, yet he was still alive. His skin was a deep purple, his eyes empty void-like sockets. He was inhuman now, even closer to his father’s image. How would he explain this to you? He didn’t deserve you. He was a disgusting freak, a failure. He was standing nervously on your—well, your shared home’s doorstep anxiously, rain battering his body, turning to leave until you had abruptly opened the door.