With quivering fingers, Thorn closed the door, then forced himself to continue, moving quietly to the door at the end of the hall. It too was slightly ajar. Thorn pushed it open and stepped in, then closed it behind him and stood motionless against it, gazing across the room at his son. The child was asleep, his face peaceful and innocent, and Thorn averted his eyes, not daring to look at him again. He tightened his muscles and drew in his breath, then moved forward, the razor clutched tightly in his hand. Standing over the boy, he clicked on the razor. It hummed loudly, seeming to fill the room. The child slept, unnoticing, and Thorn bent over him, his arms quivering as he raised the humming razor, touching it light to the boy's skin. A patch of hair immediately fell away and Thorn gasped at the defacement; white scalp showing like an ugly scar amid the dark, luxurious hair. He pressed the razor down again and it cleared a path behind it, hair wafting gently to the pillow as the child uttered a moan and began to stir. Panting with desperation, Thorn moved faster, more hair falling away as the child's eyelids fluttered and his head began to move, attempting to turn away. He was awakening now, groggily trying to raise his head, and Thorn felt a surge of panic, pushing the child's head hard toward the pillow. The terrified child tried to fight him off, but Thorn pushed harder, moaning with strain and revulsion as he forced the razor onward, shearing off more and more hair. Damien was twisting and turning now, the razor connecting in random hits, the child's muffled cries of terror becoming more and more desperate as Thorn struggled to hold him down. The scalp was coming clean, and Thorn sobbed as he bore down; the boy's small body kicking and lurching as he struggled for air. Suddenly Thorn's eyes went wide, and he applied the razor firmly, pressing down at a point at the back of the child's skull. It was there. The birthmark. Its scab like texture torn into by the razor and bleeding now, but clearly imprinted against the white scalp at the base of his head. They were sixes. Three of them, in a cloverleaf pattern with their curved tails touching in the center. Thorn reared back and the child sprang upward, sobbing and gasping for breath as he gazed at his father in terror. His small hands felt his denuded head and came away with blood on them, and he stared down at them, screaming in fear. He reached for his father and cried; Thorn was paralyzed by the helpless fear in his eyes. But he was unable to comfort him, instead beginning to sob as the bloodied hands stretched outward toward him, the child pleading for help. "Damien . . ." Thorn sobbed.