“My sister and I first saw him when we were eleven. He, or it rather, was standing on the corner of our street in broad daylight. We told our parents about the man, but when they went outside to see if he was still there, he had disappeared. That was the strangest thing about him, the fact that he never tried to hide himself, always showing up in the most public places where anyone could have seen him and then disappearing when we would point him out. I guess all of the adults around us had made him out to be just a figment of our imaginations. But he was real...I know he was. He wasn’t easy to look at, frightening almost, so it was understandable that my sister was uncomfortable when he was around. She was always the more timid one, always clinging to my parents when she was scared. It was quite annoying at times and- oh, sorry I’m getting off topic. Where was I? That’s right, his body. It was thin, practically skeletal, his hips and ribs protruding. His skin was pale, a sort of soapy white, and it was greasy, almost as if he had bathed in Crisco oil. He wasn’t completely bald. There were little strands of silver hair that you could see if you looked really closely. And goodness, his nails were a nightmare. They were blackened, long, and jagged. It looked as if he had spent quite a bit of time trying to claw his way out of something or some place. But despite his outward appearance he was always kind to us, always bringing us things, kind of like a pet would bring you their toys or something they had torn up just to show you just how much they love you. It was mostly items that the majority of people would deem insignificant, used plastic utensils, banana peels, stuff like that. It would disgust my sister and she would ask why I insisted on keeping my ‘trash’ in our shared room. Her words never really bothered me and I knew that trying to explain it to her would only result in more arguments, so I just ignored her harsh words. Occasionally though he would bring animals. One time in particular is still fresh in my mind. He had come up to us while we were playing in the back yard, stopping a few feet from where we were sitting having a tea party in the moist grass. When we looked up there was a rabbit trapped between his long, gaunt fingers, struggling to get away. Suddenly he bent down, as if he was going to let the rodent go, but instead he put his other hand around its neck and with a flick of his wrist, snapped its neck. It was swift, virtually painless, and I knew the poor animal hadn’t been in pain. My sister however, freaked out. She let out one of her shrill, vexatious screams and dashed into the house to get our parents. Of course, when mom and dad came outside, he was gone, so I ended up being the one blamed for the dead rabbit. I guess that’s when I really started distancing myself from my brat of a sister. Everytime he would come around, which was frequent, she would freak out and I would somehow get in trouble. For the whole two years that I knew him though, I never blamed him, mostly because he was my one real friend, always listening to my troubles. I would tell him about my day when I got home from school, gripe about my parents and how they favored my sister. They thought she was an angel with her perfect hair, perfect grades, and plethora of equally infuriating friends. Maybe that’s why he killed my sister. Or maybe it’s just because she got what was coming to her… Oh, I guess I should elaborate. It was on the first night of summer that my parents had thrown a going away party for one of their work friends. About half way through the night my mother had suggested that my sister and I go down to the creek just behind our backyard to play. We had whined a bit, neither of us wanting to spend the first night of our break absentmindedly staring at tadpoles in a dirty creek, but the look on my mother's face stopped us. He was hiding in the brush of the woods when we got down there, but I figured since my sister didn’t run away like a scared little wuss, that she didn’t see him. It had been about 30 minutes when he finally emerged from the woods, my sister’s back to him while I poked at an ant pile with some sticks. As he slowly approached us I waved, but I guess he didn’t see because he kept his dark, steady gaze on my sister. It was gruesome really, the way he ripped out her throat with those angular, dirty fingers of his, her screams getting lost in the gurgling, spewing blood. The noises were loud enough to attract the attention of the party-goers though. I don’t remember much after that, just the next few months passing in a blur and a faint buzzing in my ears. My parents pulled me out of school that night and sent me to this infernal place, only coming to visit me occasionally to give me important news about family or things like that. It’s okay though because I never really liked them, my parents I mean, and why would I want to live with people that didn’t even care about me. He still comes to visit me, but only after all the guards standing outside my door have left their posts for the night. We talk a lot, that’s how I know we’re still best friends. I tell him about everything you say to me. I can tell that he doesn’t think you’re a real psychiatrist, just a phony trying to get me to give you a hint as to where he is so that you can lock him up for killing my sister. But I won’t let you. You can’t have him. He doesn’t deserve it! She did deserve it, she was a horrible sister and I won’t let you take away the one friend I have! I WON’T LET YOU!”