Its happening again.
He’s there, his rabid presence gnawing at the edges of my reason.
My temples throb with fractured sight. In anguish, I steal myself to drink the last of Jekyll’s stolen potions but it’s all that stands before the Reaper and the storm. I swallow, in guilty, blessed, luxury, till sanity returns.
Yet, locked in the dark recess of my mind, where the creature howls in vengeance, I touch the patient madness yet to come. And weep. God grant me courage, let Mary be the last!
I take the pistol from the drawer.
I cannot wake, exhausted, to the whisper of his name.
Return to Julia’s Place.