Sam lay on the bed. It was well past one in the morning. His only source of light bled from the tiny panes in the window, causing the shadows to jump and dance around him. Like the evil spirits, they never failed to baffle him. "Lay down. Stop fighting. Lay down." He heard the words again, felt the strong, muscular, rough hands against his thighs. The hands, callused, bleeding from his fight. "Lay down you son a bitch. Lay down!!!" The words still screamed in his head, pulsing, biting, like this teeth, digging into the knuckles. Dragging. He heard the voice in his ear, felt the legs shoving him down. "Stop fighting!" Sam glanced down at his hands, still shaking, vividly moving in the shadows. He was gone now, it was over. They all said it. He wasn't coming back. "That man's in jail now. Nothing to fear...nothing." But the memories. They are what I fear. They fight me long after he has stepped away. You think the last part, where he finally got what he wanted, you think that is the worst. Sam cups his hands over his face and tastes the salt from his eyes. But you are so wrong. The salty, warm tears. When he leaves, when he's standing at the door, laughing, and your skin is burning, and head is twisting, that is the bad part. The worst part. Morning. Morning. He cursed morning now. He took the gift of light and tossed it. Sam sit's up. Pay's a glance to the digital beside the bed. 2:00 am. He's been here all night. They've been fighting him since the darkness called war. Sam can hear the warm waters pounding the edge of the beach outside, the rain gently soothing the windows.
Sam fell into a drift of sleep, slowly, the rain singing him back towards nothing. The knocking again, he hears it. Tap. Knock. Smack. Bang. "Let me in. I have something for you." And his voice. Strong. Does he like it? No. He says nothing. The door is not locked. The shadow, faceless stands in the frame. He sits on the bed. Says he wants to say something. Who are you? Do I know you? Don't come too close. I said no. Please stop. Please.
No one is home. It is evening, the sound of the crickets and dogs and the surf pounding against the beach. At the time, Sam was only 11. He would turn 12 within the next month. How would he know?
Who are you, what are you doing here? Who are you? No reply. Hands, dirty, rough. How did you get in here? Something cold against Sam's face. The shadows of this man have blinded him. What did he do? Stopp!?! Please stop. No more. Please. Leave me here. Let me go!
Sam sits up. His brow is covered in sweat. His hair, thin and blonde sticks to his neck. In these times he tries to tell himself it was just a dream. But one look at his bruised legs, his hands, scars. It was not a dream. Don't lie. It's not over. He's given me a weight I will carry around for the rest of my life. You think he did me a favour, when he didn't kill me. Oh, but he knew the game. This is worse than death. This is the pain you will burden me with while you walk and remember. No pain. Just gain.
"What if they let him out again?" He asked that once. To the shrink. "What if they do?" "They won't let him out. "He'll never see you again. Just calm down. It's over now."
That evil laugh. That's never over. Sam lays his head back on the pillow, his breath coming in a raggid pulse. Breathing with the surf. The shadows. The memories.
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