It’s almost like a disease. My whole body trying to fight it, fight off what was controlling me but it was more powerful then the power within myself. Although it wasn’t any real disease I became weak and weary and soon fell sick. Sick to the point where I couldn’t leave my bed to the point where I had no intention to leave it either. For a long time I sat thriving in pain, in paranoia, and great despair, searching for relief in the tiny space I occupied but knew I would find none. No matter how cold it was beads of sweat perspired off my moist flesh. I wanted to rid myself of my skin. For some reason I just knew that if I could only take it off, rip it from my bones I would at last rid myself of this monster, rid myself of this sweat. The heat became unbearable, I could no longer endure the soreness and began to scream out in utmost agony began tearing at my skin. I was triumphant in my thirst for blood. The pain ceased as the blood cooled down my flesh but did not diminish to the point where I was satisfied. I continued to scream, to scratch, to thrive in complete and utter misery until my breath was so heavy, so fast I couldn’t see. I heard a sound from the top of the stairs, heard the footsteps descend; barely, just barely saw the silhouette of the visitor, a gasp, when blackness fell.