Friends in Low Places

A caring hand.

This is what I need, and I'm telling myself this, despite the horrors still following me.

The blood.

The poignancy and the sins.

The bodies.

The living and the dormant.

They haunt my life in every moment both awake and asleep. The caring hand was comforting, and was commonly the one to wake me from my nightmares. She would not question it, and would just give me a drink, and let me be alone to think.

They called her a rogue.

I called her a savior.

She raised me. She taught me. The Rogue molded me with those caring hands. She would noiselessly free me from the chains of my dreams. Every night, towards the early fractions of morning where the night is at it's darkest, she would comfort me from my tribulations.

Until I stopped sleeping.

The grasp of the terrors forced me to stop my attempt to rest at all, and with baggy eyes and a sleepless mind, I somehow managed.

The voice.

He was always there. In my mind. In my thoughts. In my body.

Since the murder, there has been the whispers of another; of a sinner. He reeked of the death of others and echoed with the veil of evil.

He never left.

The caring hand and the sinful voice.

My friends from low places, and the only comfort in the endless turmoil.