There is something crawling in his skin. In his every sleeping hours, it is there. Whispering. Clawing. Gnawing. Scratching. He could not figure out what it is. It is like it is buried deep within him and it is the only one fighting its way to the surface while he is nothing more than an observer in his own body.

He sometimes understands the whispers but before he could ever make them out in his head, they will turn into screams. Screams of agony. Screams of loathing. Screams of absolute hate. Screams in the void. Then it will huff down again to a low distinct hurried whisper as if it could no longer wait whatever it is waiting.

It reaches the depths of his mind. It covers his sight in the moments that he felt like he was momentarily displaced from his present into somewhere unknown but familiar to him. It grabs him by the back and cover its hands over his eyes. The hands feels familiar everytime. He could feel lips whispering in his ear but could never fathom what it is saying. It's as if there is somehow a barrier between the voice and the message it is dying to convey to him.

It reaches his skin. He could feel something scratching from underneath his fingertips, his scalp, his every inch. Scratching, as if the goal is to bore a hole in his being and then escape from there. It's like someone trying to bend bars of a jail day by day until they can finally fit in the space towards freedom.

"Remember who you are Meguerine. Remember me!"