Well I just watched episode 4. You British people are SO backwards. You have to use Sky Atlantic or something to watch it. Plus in US we can watch it 24 hours before you.
I wrote a thing so I'm just gonna throw it here, critique and such would be appreciated uwu -- Monster. It is the first thought in your head as you sit crumpled on the floor, hands shaking. You stare down at them, so foreign, with half-lidded, empty eyes, and just like every other minute of your miserable existence, you hate yourself. You stare at the black sludge pooling in your palms, studded with shimmering pearl-like objects that you just somehow know that that aren't pearls, but instead something much more alien, and something much more volatile. Monster. It is the word that resounds in your head as you rinse the inky, viscous liquid from your fingers, picking it out from under your fingernails, hoping with all your heart that the garbage disposal takes care of it all before your mother comes home from work, god forbid she found out about the creature that lurked deep within your very being. The thing, whatever it is, hides in your soul, wrapped tightly around your mind. It holds clawed hands over your eyes and ears, and brings the black muck from your stomach, marbled through with the sickeningly perfect-looking eggs. It disgusted you in some distant corner of your mind, made you want to hold a gun to your head and end the tale of misery that is your life. Yet, everything seemed so perfect to the rest of your essence. You supposed everything was poetic in a twisted sort of way, like your very essence was that of broken mirrors and silk, of cotton and burlap, of sugar and lemons, of every juxtaposition and paradox you could think of. Sometimes, things like this captivated you, and in your mind's eye you could see swirling colors - reds and blacks, blues and oranges, so many different tones and hues that you would become lost in the vortex in your head for hours on end. When you came to, it was all too often that you found yourself sprawled out on the floor, limbs crooked like you had fallen over suddenly, and many times the black sludge was leaking from the corners of your mouth, your skin tinted a sickly grey. You would stand up and run to check your appearance in the mirror, to see if it had happened again, your eyes yellowing and skin becoming grey and scaly, and as you ran, you felt your feet skating above the ground, and you stepped on air, crackles of dark energy sparking from your fingertips, and before you could stop it, you would fall and heave out the sludge, over and over, until your shaking form is crouched in a puddle of the stuff, until you were so weak you couldn't move. You would sit there in silence as it all disappeared slowly, fading out of existing, your skin slowly returning to its normal pasty and pale tone. Monster. It is the thing you called yourself after you would lock yourself away for weeks at a time, hiding behind fake illnesses, one after the other - the flu, pneumonia, mad cow disease, anything you could think of to keep all this, whatever the hell it was, a secret. You kept your head down in school, doing your work and keeping a steady reputation as the girl that ran to the bathroom in the middle of class to puke, the girl that never said a word and wore black too much, the girl that was hardly at school anymore. Your world teetered as if on a tightrope, leaning one way and then the other, keeping up a precarious balancing act, and somewhere in the recesses of your mind you know that you can't stay on top forever, that someday you'll have to give in to the voices that murmur in otherworldly tongues in the back of your consciousness, you'll have to let the black sludge leak through your eyes and your ears, give up and stop fighting. Monster. Through this word, you remind yourself day in and day out that you're an abomination, a freak of nature, something that shouldn't exist in this plane of the world. You bottle up your emotions inside your choked-off, sludge-filled heart, concentrate them until they form a tiny, red-hot ball in the center of your chest, and there you lock them away. You force your own thoughts to the back of your head, emptying yourself until you yourself are nothing more than a void with a scattering of thoughts and a scattering of barely-there emotions drifting along the very edges.
Well I'll be damned if that wasn't the first time Ukraine has given Russia less than 12, 4 no less, points in Eurovision. Aaaaand that passed over everybody's head.