Prologue: Night
night noun
\ ˈnīt \
1: the time from dusk to dawn when no sunlight is visible
“Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.”
― Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
He was like an open, seeping, infected wound. Like the sound of intestines being clenched tightly in a fist made out of rage. A wraith made from fear, rage, and pain. He was like a sickness that settled in the bones, in the lungs, in the heart. He was a sickness and an addiction. So terribly beautiful, so horrifically awe-inspiring. Like an angel from above.
The taste of him was like burnt sugar, thick on the tongue until choked upon. There was no escape from him. Always there, sometimes silent, sometimes so overpoweringly loud. Mostly he was a chilling whisper, fingers up the spine and across the shoulders. He was a lover’s embrace that only left bruises on the skin.
Sharp teeth and an even sharper tongue. Words like knives searing across flesh into the bone. The smell of rotting carcasses and sulfur, the smell of sewage and plant decay. The smell of burning tar and melting flesh. He was like a dozen foot shadow only seen in the dark with a reach so long it was impossible to escape. He was a friend, an enemy, a savior, and a sinner.
He was fingers wrapped around a delicate throat that only let go when the blur of tears obscured his face from view. He was a heart set aflame by desire and quenched by bone shattering fear. He was a safety blanket and the boogeyman. He was everything and nothing. He was the name that was whispered when the terror became too much, he was the name that was screamed under the sheets. He was the lure and the trap.
