Psycho
It still hurts, to see that name. To think of the time it's been. I've been lost these past few times. Of days or weeks. Shuttered windows block the view. I lie distressed, with a fever, with rage burning through. Anger that washes cold over my skin. That seeps through and leaves the sheets damp. Twisting in darkness, this four-post bed. A glass of water sits beside my hand. But it could be Holy Water for my fear to drink it. My throat hurts and my voice scrapes. Hands drawn through gravel, a victim dragged. The hole dug. The faint smell of oil and wiper fluid lingers from the trunk. Like smelling salts. When she breaks away, she runs.