His ship. Abomination. A word meant to roll off the tongue of a preacher.
He can't think about sermons without remembering dying eyes and Book's choked-out words and that's pain on pain.
The water in the basin's deep and dirty but his nails are still clogged with red. It's not blood. Blood dries black and brown. Dries ugly. This is just paint, nothing more, no matter what purpose they put it to.
The mirror shows him the stroke of Book's blood-wet fingers, dried and flaking on his face.
He scrubs his fingers raw before he lets them touch his face.