Veni, Vidi, Amavi.

You spoke my name like it was holy. Like it was a tangible sense of salvation.

"I clung to your hands so that something human might exist in the chaos. "

Hélène Cixous, from Olivier De Serres A Single Passion Two Witnesses," Love Itself: In the Letter Box (Polity Press, 2008)

You were home sitting at the dinner table. The one you having seen since you were a child. You smoothed your hand over the wooden table. It was both warm and cool to the touch.

When did you get here? How did you get here? You traced a finger over your name. Carved into the table when you were eight and just this side of unsupervised.

What happened to the demons? Was it all a nightmare?

But what about him. The Slayer? How does one imagine him?

Someone passed you a bowl of mashed potatoes. The baby blue bowl hot and heavy in your hands. You took the spoon and scooped some out. Dropping a large portion to you plate.

When did those green beans turn to corn? Maybe it was always corn.

You go for more and drop the spoon. Blood spills over your plate. The silver spoon covered in it.

The bowl falls from your grasp. Shatters as it hits the table. Soaks your lap and chest with blood.

You try to tell. To scream. It stick in your throat and claws at your tongue.

Desperation consumes you.

You reach for your father's hand in your panic. It's cold to the touch. You look up. Your body stills. Felling as if you dunked yourself into a pool of ice water.

That was not your father.

An Imps head looks back to you. Beady eyes and sharp toothed grin.

You go to stand. The chair clattering to the floor. The sound stalls your heart.

The Imp claws at your arm. Red rivers stream from your arm.

Pain.

Hurt.

Terror.

A flash of green.

.

You woke drenched in sweat and shivering. Chest heaving with the pounding of your heart. You wear heavy. Laden with lead. Not one part of you wanted to move. Feeling as if your were chained to the bed.

A sob racked through your throat. You felt sick. Shivering and shaking in the bed. A whimper leaves your lips.

You press your hand to your chest. To your lap. Feeling for anything akin to the blood that soaked you.

Nothing but your own sticky skin.

You sit up. Glance about the room. Trying to find something. Anything to help hold the terror at bay. You settle with your pillow. Hold it in your arms close to your chest. You buried your face in it. Body curls in on itself.

Dimly you are aware of your door opening. Soft blue light bathing your room from the hallway. You glance up.

The Slayer, still out of his amour. You shuffle closer to the back of your bed. Your back now flushed with the freezing wall. He stops at the foot of your bed and picks up a blanket you kicked off in your sleep.

Why was he here?

He stops closer. Pauses. Waits then comes to the left of you and sits and the edge of the bed. He's close enough you can feel the heat rolling off his body. You shiver. Suddenly aware of how cold you are.

The Slayer says nothing. Places the blanket next to him. You watch the shifting of his muscles. Moving like water beneath his skin. More so, you see the scars. Crossing and hatching across his back.