Presley rolls his eyes. "Why is everyone in this school so eager to bleed for other people? I'm already dripping, we might as well just—let me—" He leans in to dangle his hand over the envelope, letting his blood drip down. Just incredibly unsanitary, all of this.

"This doesn't necessarily have anything to do with your mother," Presley adds, as he watches the red drops hit the paper. He doesn't look at Patrice. "These memories are a... twisted game. Messing with people's heads."