The pain tore my scalp as the shadow man slashed it.
Infuriated wasps stung my arms.
Electric currency ran through my torso, arching my back painfully.
My sides run with hot blood where he'd cut me.
I didn't know why he tortured me,
I told him, screamed, begged him to stop.
Have I died and gone to Hell?
He laughed.
He is gone for now, but he will come back. Some day soon I'll give in, tell him everything. I don't know what he wants so I'll confess to it all. Every lie, every ill deed. Maybe he'll go away then.
Now I can fall into a sleep that isn't quite sleeping. It doesn't quite do what sleep is supposed to.
In the morning I wake up, look into a mirror: a pale, ghostlike shadow of youth looks back and tries to smile. There are no scars, no bruises, no sting marks, no fresh wounds and yet I still feel his clutches on me.
