Thunder outside and George was looking for bruises.
Behind each eye he felt pressure. Something was eating his head. A bursting of some mental dam bent on sweeping him away to a country as far away as happiness. For today he was not happy. In fact he was very unhappy. I am not happy he called to Musk the Mongrel dog who had wandered into this house years before he was born and had never left as no one was sufficiently interested to banish the creature or welcome him in. Musk flipped an ear over and sat down staring at George.
And just because he wanted a bruise, his Aunt, out of the infinite kindness of her heart and because she could, painted a rich dark purple stain on his arm. His left forearm it had to be and through she was very new to all this spirit messaging, she jabbed through the iillusory sponginess that separated this world from death’s space and drew the bruise as a small elegant island, surrounded by an archipelago of freckles.