(Ask-Box Roulette) Walking barefoot down the jagged path, the blood of his wounds brings up crimson-hearted black flowers behind him. Cold dry winds whistle past, making a hollow sound across the cavity in his skull, and he titters brokenly because it sort of tickles and also hurts. Despite the fairy tales he’s read, he still dares to look back, though unable to see where he came in, and yet hoping to find another following him down. (1 of 8)