Over his wrists, now, too - warm, and dry, and holding them in place, and the flickering of the light gleams on scales.

And the flickering

and the flick-ering

flicker

The orderly reaches for his brush, grasping it by the bristled end. He enunciates, clear as a bell, "God damn these lights," and in a graceful overhead sweep, jabs the handle into the fluorescent tube.

It shatters like a nova, and in the last glow, the orderly's eyes gleam gold.

And a thousand tiny shards of glass drift down and down, like snowflakes.