August 2, 2019; 10:45 PM

Why? Why is it here? Why won’t it leave me alone? I want to cry out and ask it why. Demand an answer. But my mouth is wired shut. My tongue stiff and inflexible. It is right over me. It’s face less than half an inch from mine. Face extending in waves as though it’s opening its mouth.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the slab of its hand moving down towards my arm. And now it starts to change. First it starts to spread out, getting wider and wider like a puddle spreading. Small slivers begin to open. Thin fingers start to form, webbed at the bottom as though it were some sea creature. At the tips, long nails extend and come to a sharp point. The newly formed talons glide through the air coming to a rest at my arm. Even though I can’t move it, I can feel those claws sliding across my skin. I can feel the skin being snapped apart and the warm blood running from the opening wounds. Inside, my entire body is an ice cube, but sweat still comes out of me in waves. And the whole time, I can do nothing but lay here and wait. Wait for it to end. Wait for me to end?

August 3, 2019; 5:05 AM

I stand over my sink, letting the warm water pour over the cuts in my arms. Streamlets of blood run off my arm, into the sink, and down the drain. The cuts are deep. Scars are certain to form. Join the other ones that are already there. It’s not just a dream. Not just a hallucination. This thing is hurting me. I’m scared it wants to do worst.

August 3, 2019; 12:17 PM

Beneath my sleeves, the cuts are bandaged up. I rub at them, trying to rid myself of the itch. I sit here wanting to cry. Beg for help. But I don’t know how. How do you tell someone that you’re scared the boogeyman? Of the monster under the bed. 

“You don’t look good," he says.

“I know," I say holding back the bulk of the tears. Some still get through.

“Something happen?"

I move my lips as though I’m speaking, but nothing comes out.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me."

“I want to,” I spit out. The dam has broken now and the tears have come rushing out.

“Then why don’t you? What are you scared of?"

“I don’t know how."

“Just tell me the truth. Whatever it is."

We sit there in silence for a few minutes as I prepare to actually say the words. As crazy as they may sound. “Something..." I finally utter.

“Are you bleeding?" he asks, cutting me off. 

My gaze moves down to my arm where I can see blood running out of the cuff of my sleeve and dripping down onto the carpet. A blood stain has popped up on the sleeve itself. The cuts have opened.

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