and a grisly looking hole in the side of his neck.

Now only this battered diary, a few chaotic splinters of memory and random hallucinations, were all he had as clues as he attempted to piece it all back together. He reads the words on the page, still unsure as to what relevance they have:

My beacon in the darkest night

My shade from a burning sun

You are probably my only hope… but I’d really prefer not to think of you ever again

He closes the notebook over as a scream catches his attention, but it’s not too close, so he’s not too concerned. As he flicks through the pages to return to where he was he thinks to himself: Jesus, I really am terrible at poetry.