Oh, rip out my spine, perhaps? Tear my nails out one by one. Carve the flesh from my bone until I made a pretty picture like your mother's roast--

[He cuts himself off, the sudden tear of the fabric in his hands snapping him out of it. He has the shirt in a white knuckled grip. It's ruined now. Or at least it'll need to be mended. A faint breath escapes his lips as he runs his fingers gently over where he's torn the seam apart.]

...I can go on, dearest. But I don't think you want to hear it.