It was dark, but I knew they were watching me, feeling me ... they could sense the jaw-snap fear. The old man had told me not to fear the dark. Easy for him to say. I lay in the dark feeling them ... it didn't matter. Light or dark. It didn't matter. They lived on my shoulder, in my ears, they played their games ... electrical static in my brain.
They're not real. The old man always says it. And I always agree because, well, what's the fucking point? You can't convince him, and you sure can't convince me. Not when I hear their whispers. Not when the smell of old blood follows me like prank perfume - they are real, no matter what he says.
They found me several years ago. I don't know how, and I don't know why I was picked. I had lived a boring, if easy, life - I was not some kind of spy, not some soul scouring superhero. I was just a man. Until they made me even less than that.
They play me like a big fish. They never pull too hard. Sometimes I can feel their hot breath in my ears, but they know when to back off, when to stand in the corner and just watch.