[ His heart feels like its slipped like a fish upstream, into his brain, pounding away at the forefront. In moments, his dark shirt is darker with damp. He would prefer his hallucinations quiet, but even an awareness about the unreality of the situation doesn't stop him from answering it. A philosophical perspective. He's also insane.

And dying, maybe. He shudders against his restraints in an effort to not do that. ]

You know the story about the frog and the scorpion? And the river.

[ He gives a canine shake of his head, eyes closed against the sight of his ex, sharp in the foreground of a nightmare Gaussian blur or painful light, eyeball-sucking shadow. ]

No river, here. Scorpion can do whatever it wants.