PROLOUGE:

He walked slowly along the brisk and nearly empty streets, the haze of a hot summer day in Philadelphia finally beginning to break away to a cooler evening chill that hinted that the season was about to turn. Tourists had come and most were gone by now, the setting sun and long growing shadows no longer offering picturesque scenes for their family albums, the historic buildings beginning to be swallowed in the darkness that even a camera's flash would not adequately capture the beauty and imposing history of. He looked idly around for a place to move too, some place where shadows would swallow him too, where he would find a moment of peace from the swirling void of thoughts in his mind, from the nightmares, from the things that moved in the corners of his eyes. He pulled his thin jacket around him tighter, hiked his worn and ratty looking knapsack higher on his shoulder. The bottoms of his shoes were held on with duct tape, and barely at that for he'd walked right out of the soles of them long ago. He was thin, a starved husk of the boy he'd been only a few years back as he walked many streets famished. Tonight was no different. His stomach had stopped protesting now, it knew there was no point.

No point.

His steps slowed, he felt heavy. To his left was a bench, not that big but he could lay down and sleep if needed. Third street didn't seem that busy now that the sun was slipping slowly behind the horizon. He shook his head, memories of cops roughly making it known he wasn't welcome to just sleep wherever he pleased in public. A little further up he saw an open gate, leading behind some large important looking building.

You're a waste of space.

First National Bank of the United States of America, some plaque on the street read. He looked up at the imposing Greek revival architecture, and the empty black windows. For a moment he thought he could see a man in a powdered white wig staring out one of the top windows, but as he blinked the man disappeared and he thought it no more then a trick of the light, something else made up by his ever deceitful eyes. He turned and shuffled toward the gate, around the imposing building into a quaint little courtyard with trees and shrubberies that blocked most of the street's view. It wasn't home, not anything close, but it would do.

No one wants you. They hate you. You're disappointment, a disgrace.

He moved to a short but thick brick wall, a makeshift sitting bench among the landscaping, and sat down slowly, his body aching with hunger and too much time spent in the elements.

Worthless. Piece of garbage.

His hazel eyes held little life in them anymore, at least not to those who looked into them. He stared down at the brick laid ground for a moment, trying to avoid seeing...seeing it. He didn't know what it was, he only knew he was the only one who saw it, and that he didn't like it. It came out of the darkness. It would sit on his chest, hold him down. He dreaded going to sleep, that's when it came out the most. At first it had started only as he was asleep, nightmares that shook him to his core, shook him awake, sitting bolt upright screaming wherever he had laid down. Then it progressed, he'd be awake but unable to move, seeing it holding him down, it's face inches from his, screaming at him, cackling, sharp rows of teeth glistening in the early morning light. Sleep paralysis and night terrors the internet had told him. He thought he would just have to deal with it. After all, it wasn't like he had the means to see a doctor that could fix it for him.

You don't deserve life.

It got worse. Nightmares, no matter how bad weren't supposed to leave marks. At first it was bruising. Hand prints around his wrists. Then the scratches, sets of three all over his body whether it was covered or not. As old marks would heal, a fresh new set would take it's place. Sometimes he would wake up to find a scratch that seems to be healing just fine had split open again, cutting deeper into his flesh. Then he dreamt it bit him. He woken up screaming, his chest bleeding from the contact and suddenly he knew it was more then a night terror. He'd collected his things right away then, and walked all the way down to a local soup kitchen he'd been told operated out of a church. But before he could walk into the house of god a sickness overtook him, and the horrid memories of an abusive childhood crippled his mind. It turned him away, it dragged the very notion of thought out of his brain.

They'll never accept you. They'll kill you first. Faggot. You're a sinner. You're unclean. They'll send you to hell where you belong, you're damned, you're filthy.

Schizophrenia, the internet told him. He wanted to believe that. It was, easier to believe that. After all, the voices were getting louder now. He was hearing them all the time. And the alternative would be admitting that his father had been right, that God was real and his own sexual lust for men had angered this omnipotent being who lived in the sky, and now he was being punished for refusing to repent his wicked ways. And he didn't believe that, he didn't believe that love between two consenting adults could be wicked. It was easier to believe he was schizophrenic because that made far more sense then some imaginary god who would hate him for the very way he was made. It was easier to believe he was mentally ill then tormented by a demon.

There is no such thing as God. Your father just hated you. He just hated what you are.

He dug into his backpack and found a half full bottle of whiskey. Uncapping it he took a long drink. Sometimes that quelled the voices.

You don't deserve to be alive.

Sometimes it didn't.

Kill yourself.

He jolted some when he thought he felt a hand grab him, but no one was there. Still, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the only weapon he had, a pocket knife he'd gotten after the first time he was mugged while sleeping on the streets. The weight of it comforted him, though he knew it would not do anything for him from the assault in his brain.

But it can make the pain stop. It can make all your troubles stop.

He shook his head, loose dark brown curls bouncing around his face as he did so. No. That wasn't an option.

You cut yourself all the time though. You have been for years. You do it in your sleep sometimes, that's were all those marks have come from and you know it.

He reached a hand down to his hip, and rubbed it over another area that bore a distinct set of three scratches underneath his clothes, scabbed over now and healing. He'd never thought that he was cutting in his sleep. That was a new suggestion and it turned his stomach over. He had been a cutter years ago when he was a teenager, a means to an end of expressing how hurt he felt inside living with the weight of a secret identity he couldn't express. But he'd put that kind of behavior behind him when he was cast out onto the streets at 16, a punishment from a father who refused to house a son who would no longer keep himself silent. It had been scary, and hard at first, with nowhere to go or no one he could turn to for any help, but he'd also realized that he didn't have to stay in his backwards thinking asinine little southern town either, and the freedom that came from his journey north had elated him.

Whore. Filthy whore.

At first. Then the voices started. The nightmares followed. Then the sleep paralysis and night mares turned to terrors, and the hallucinations were not to far behind that. He was sick, without the means to get better. He figured he would just have to handle it, the paranoia of his mind made it hard to trust anyone else, seeing his father's angry face in the eyes of anyone he tried to ask for help beyond the bare basics. He resorted to panhandling to get by; his downtrodden and distressed looking self usually got him just enough attention to get a little money here and there, but his lack of self-care and vacant stares into the void of reality or the way he sometimes babbled to himself in an effort to drown out the voices when they got too bad must've made him look like a tweeker, roaming around out of his mind and just looking for another fix. He was caught in a downward spiral, and he was too tired to fight his way out of it. He took another sip from his flask.

Sinner. Unclean.

He moved to lay down, using his backpack as a pillow and trying to get as comfortable as he could on the edge of the small wall. It was going to be chilly, but it was not winter yet and he figured he wouldn't need the blanket in his bag, better to use it for his head. He was so fatigued that sleep came to him quickly, despite the whispering in his ears.

He stood in darkness, nothing around him as far as he could see. He knew this place, not as any place he'd been in his travels, but it was the same place he always came when he slept now. At first he'd walked around, but night after night he was disappointed to find nothing more then the darkness, everlasting.

A growling came up behind him then, something breathed harshly against his neck. He held perfectly still, daring not to move or turn to face it, petrified in fear. It cackled, and he knew it could feel his own terror. He knew what would come next, but he also knew that there was no out running it. He'd stopped trying to outrun it so long ago.

He screamed as claws dug into him, as tendrils of darkness wrapped around his body, squeezing tightly, what felt like fire engulfing him. It cackled behind him, drawing joy from the agony he felt, drawing strength. It dropped him and he crumpled, fell to his knees, shaking from the attack but unable to get up and run. He'd stopped trying to outrun it so, so long ago.

He was pressed down into the ground, his face choking on dirt, as the jagged sharp edges of claws raked across his back. He screamed and begged it to stop, he cried out in agony, he wailed for someone to help him, anyone to save him. No body ever came. He felt punched, and kicked, blow after blow rained down on his body. Hands around his neck stole his ability to breath, his ability to scream. His body felt hot, like someone was pouring molten metal over it slowly. He felt something penetrating him.

He began to buck and squirm, fighting back against his assailant in any way that he could. It was laughing as it rode him, delighted that he was fighting again, gleeful in this spark of life that made him thrash about beneath it. He got his neck free and with it his voice, screaming again, screaming for it to get back, to leave him alone, to GET OFF HIM NOW.

He woke up screaming, rolling off the edge of the wall into the dirt batch and bushes beside it. He sat up and looked wildly about for the monster that plagued his dreams, hoping to catch a glimpse of it this time, even if it was a hallucination. No such luck. Still he got to his feet, screaming his frustrations.

"LEAVE ME ALONE! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES, LEAVE ME ALOOOOONE!"

Gasping for breath, he dropped to his knees and wailed. His body hurt. He was so tired...his body hurt. He lifted his shirt and sobbed, seeing the blood from scratches wrapped around from his back, seeing the bruises starting to form. He was so tired, and his body hurt so much. It was getting worse. He doubled over in pain, bringing his hands up to cover his weeping face, and was confused to feel his pocket knife still grasped in one hand, unopened.

2-4 minutes to pass out when you sever the carotid artery, 10 minutes, maybe 15 tops to die, but you won't even be conscious for it. You'll go faster if you get the femoral artery too.

He took a long, deep breath trying to process that thought.

You'll get to rest. You won't even feel pain. It'll be over and you can just rest. Won't that be nice?

He sniffled and put the knife back in his pocket. He needed to bandage his wounds. He needed to keep his clothes free form blood. He reached for his backpack and it flew away as if it was kicked. He froze, staring at it in disbelief. The same growling noise was heard in his ear again and he sobbed. It was getting worse.

He felt hands grab him around the ankles and suddenly he was dragged across the pavement and thrown up against the building wall. He felt something choking him again, his feet too far off the ground so they kicked at an attacker that wasn't there. He was being punched and beaten. Something was biting into him, clawing into his flesh and this time it wasn't a dream, he was awake. The attack stopped as suddenly as it came and he was dropped once more, hitting the cold stone floor this time with a sickening thud. His pocket knife clattered to the ground beside him.

Slit.

Your.

Throat.

He stared blankly at the knife, laying open beside him. He didn't remember opening it. When did he open it?

When you cut yourself. When you carved the recent scratches into yourself.

He sat up and looked down at himself, the blood staining his old torn clothes from underneath. Memories of him slowly dragging the knife across his skin filled his mind. He shook them away. He needed to bandage the wounds before someone saw him. They would have him committed. He couldn't be committed. They'd hurt him. He couldn't be committed, he had to bandage the wounds.

You want to die.

"Nooo..." his voice was horse and small, cracking in a way that hadn't happened since he was 10.

YOU WANT TO DIE.

He tried to get up, his body was shaking. And his backpack was so far away. It felt easier to just lay down and let himself bleed, god he was so tired and he just wanted to sleep. But if he closed his eyes he felt hands on him, claws digging into his flesh, he heard screams in his ears, whisperings of what a worthless piece of shit he was, how much better he'd be off dead. He covered his head in a futile effort to block it out, digging his hands into the dark curly locks, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears cut a wet path down the dirt covering his face clearing away all but the freckles underneath.

The glint of the knife caught his attention, and everything fell silent.

He reached for the blade with a trembling hand. His dirty, bloody fingers closed around the cold hilt slowly, feeling the familiar weight. He'd gotten this knife as his only means of protection in a hard knock life on the streets, but there was only one way it could protect him from the voices attacking him from inside his own mind now. Carotid artery, 2 minutes to pass out, 10 or so til death. He looked around. No one would find him til the morning, til it was far to late to stop him, to help him. Carotid artery, 2 minutes to pass out. He pressed the blade to his neck.

"Okay, whatta we got here?" the detective asked as they lifted the sheet covering the body. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this kid is barely legal."

"Yeah, looks like a mugging gone wrong, autopsy should tell us for sure," his partner replied.

"I'm guessing cause of death would be the knife sticking out of his throat, eh?"

"More likely then not."

"Who found the body?"

"Building manager and one of the tour guides. Officers are interviewing them now."

"Any ID?"

"Yeah, a backpack left on the other side of the courtyard has a driver's license from South Carolina, says his name was John Anthony Laurens."

John stood next to the detectives examining his corpse, tears streaming down his face. He'd given up screaming for someone to notice him hours ago. No one could see him, could see that his spirit was earthbound, no one was aware that he still needed help. His death was supposed to bed his suffering, it was supposed to bring him peace. A dark figure crept up behind him, it's long clawed fingers wrapping around him like they'd done so many times in his sleep, only now they were real and now he couldn't wake up from this nightmare. It chuckled darkly as it played with a chain that hung from a collar around his neck. Tentacles of darkness swirled up his legs, slithering against him in ways that made him tremble and whimper, a tongue dragged lazily up his neck and across his cheek. "You belong to me now, John," a voice growled in his ear, a voice he knew so very well. "Welcome to hell."

He screamed and agony was all that he knew.

END PROLOGUE