Like somebody snapped their fingers, I’m awake at one thirty seven a.m. He’s been here. I smell the pigs. Their breath and sweat. Raw intelligence. The steam of their violence.

Ice trays filled. Toilet paper on the roll. I don’t need to check.

A gob of pungent semen on my pillow and on my cheek.

Fuck!

I can’t fucking stand it. I really can’t fucking stand this.

I throw the bloody linens in the laundry with bleach in a gust of disgust and escape to my shower. The water is as hot as I can stand it, shocking the gash in my face when I step in front of it. My split plumb. Reflex, I lower my head. Blood pools at my feet. It’s coming from my face, but also from just above my knees. Something is carved into the flesh above each knee cap, underneath the meat of the thigh.

I can’t make it out. The blood and water simultaneous, make it impossible.

Still faded, this development makes me dizzy. I grab the nozzle with both hands so I don’t go down.

People say their lives are a nightmare, they have no idea.

Where do I go? Who do I tell?

The only blood around here is mine. A white plastic pawn with my hands all over it. I’ve just poured bleach on his DNA. Random and surreal but I’m losing my breath. I can’t breathe. Crazy. No police.

Can’t even picture that.

Man, I miss the good doctor Wednesdays at ten thirty. I doubt I could tell her. Either way she’d think I’m full blown dancing with myself.

I mean, maybe I am.

I’m not sure.

After that? Paranormal services like Ghost Busters? An exorcist?

See? How fucked I am?

Where would you go? Who would you tell? Tell me.

The carvings in my legs have numbed parts of my ankles and calves. I begin to let go of the nozzle and seem to be able to support my weight. I wonder how I’ll walk.

I soap and wash, over and over with one hand on the nozzle at all times.

I’m a senior citizen getting out of the shower.

Yer pretty fucking ambulatory!, I shout at myself in the mirror. My feet feel funny. Like I’m floating but literally tripping on them across the bathroom floor.

I begin to understand. Both my achilles tendons. They’re kinda numb. They still work, but I’m walking like a drunk with broken toes. He didn’t slash the actual tendons because he wants me mobile. I don’t kid myself that he could have.

Then there’s the symbolism of that particular tendon. Achilles. Greek Trojan war icon.

I understand that this insane liquid oxygen rocket fueled poltergeist has me on fucking defrost. He’s just playing. I’m his Sunday stroll. I wonder how many others he doing this to or has done it to.

I trip around the bed, putting on fresh linens.

I can’t wait to get to the office in the morning. I may have to pass on that. Whether I show or not, no good can come of it, they’re all so close to done with me.

An Ace and a Club, the two black suits. On my knees. Lotion stops the bleeding long enough to see.

Clearly, the Bible is a period piece, but I can’t help thinking about finding some creepy old cleric or maybe a shaman. What I’m up against here is light years beyond the archetypical antagonist.

For the twentieth time I tell myself I have no choice but to be his doom.

I have no choice. No other option. No other possibility.

No one one can end this but me.

The thought brings fear and frustration.

Just how the fuck am I gonna do this?

I’ve been thinking about a crossbow. Grenades. A shotgun.

Anybody know a white wizard?

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