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No matter how much I tried, it still wouldn’t break free. The teeth were delicately lodged in my neck, and it parasitically continued to feed on my blood.
Where was my strength? I could only feebly feel my arms being held down by the force on top of me.
Where was the light? Wasn’t it still dawn? Or was it dusk?
Where was I?
What was happening?
I could feel my heart quickening. Fear. I tasted my own fear on my parched dry tongue.
To move a hand was to lift an inconceivable amount of weight.
I could feel my essence of life-crushing me, escaping me, leaving me, and yet I still lingered.
There was no moon.
What I saw before me were the eyes of my parasite. They were of an odd colour.
They shone.
I could not move. I could not speak.
My wretched neck was burning, flaming, but now the flowing blood had ceased.
Was I still alive?
The face of my parasite had since disappeared from my memory, just like the deep, piercing mark on my skin had healed.
But one thing had since remained.
The thirst on my ever dry tongue, and my hatred of the moon.
Perhaps if the moon had shone, I would have seen my perpetrator more clearly.