A serpentine tongue flicks scarlet. There is a soft rustling in a faded gray room. It emits a low hiss; it hangs in the air, then sputters and dies out. The other inhales shakily, breath dense and damp and scared. Everything is choppy and disorganized. Sloppy strokes on an aged canvas. It digs deeply into china flesh, pulled taut over nerve and bone- splotches of red, more heavy breathing- and lets out an ominous chuckle. The other squeezes his eyes tight and turns away and wonders how long he will be able to hold out. He tries to picture the rain. A cup of chamomile tea. Yeah. That sounds nice.

It grins and leans in close. He knows because his face is suddenly hot and dry, and he can't see the rain. A voice in his head whispers, "You're insane, you know."

"Enough?" It's voice is taunting and foreign. Luminescent golden sparks pool at It's lips and swell over, drifting onto the white sheets, ostensibly charcoal in the dusk. They leave little ebony spots of ash. You're insane.

There is a dark rumbling of thunder. A shadow falls across It's face and leaves two crowded eyes alone in the darkness, but he can't see them. It seems dissatisfied with this. There is a huff, more rustling, a strip of light across pale, nailbitten fingers on the mattress.

"No." The sound is empty, like a marble in a tin can. Surrender. Suicide. Failure. You're insane. He coughs. "Never." He can see again.

He sees that unparagoned grin return, angry and distorted and strange and beautiful. A feral growl rips from within a black sneer; a pair of twisted lips, jagged teeth, eyes that… gosh, eyes… .

It clicks almost pityingly, and moves nearer to lick at the blood on his arm.

Everything is dark and quiet, save for the pattering of raindrops on the roof.