The demonic thing's words wash over him without him hearing a single one of them. Fingers fisted into his hair, jerking painfully at his head, but everything is just - just secondary to the way that glass had slid up and cut into his flesh, slit open those thick purple sacks of organs and sent their innards spilling out all over the carpet, his clothing, over everything that's too wet and too red and his tongue is too heavy in his mouth.

"Sh-shut up," he rasps, vaguely, trying to spit blood at the thing that's killed him to no avail. "Shut up. Y-you're not - you'll never be it. You're not even close."

That's the one thing he can hold over him. The proverbial fuck you of glassy eyes and still body and pointing finger. At least, at least that thing won't be what claims him. At least it's just this - this asshole who's too creepy for his own good. But it's better. It's better than letting that thing have its way with him.

It's better.