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One drag of the damp fibres over his face was enough to make him gasp and twist his head away. “Ah, mama!” More blood, always more blood. He thought he might never stop bleeding.
“Michelangelo,” she said sharply. “I told you.”
“It hurt.”
“Of course it hurt, Michelangelo, it’s an open wound.” She held his head in her hand the second time, her hand at the back of his neck, nails clawing into him a little, and daubed the cloth over his cheek with patience but not much care.

cataclism.