Mello
Every day Mello wakes up at 4 am.
He gets on his knees by the edge of his bed and prays. Fervently.
He runs his fingers over the beads and murmurs so fast the words blend together to a string of forgiveforgiveforgiveforgive.
He runs out of breath but doesn't stop, prays harder when blood pours from his nose and the room gets cold.
The spirits surround him, all he knows is that they were human once.
They know his name and they what he fears.
They make his rosary rattle and the taps on the bathroom open, the bed creaks and sinks a full inch and Mello struggles not to lose his balance. They grip and pull at his clothes, fabric ripping and so cold.
His fingers and toes go numb and the rest of him is hypersensitive, aware.
They put a weight on his chest and he knows his heart rhythm must me be a mess.
He holds and prays until dawn when the sun chases them back to the murky corners of the room.
Out of sight out of mind, he sighs.
The clock reads 33:33.