Victims come, victims go. He knew this.

Yet one face, one image, proved inescapable.
Every second of every day it stepped up to greet him.

Every morning, one face bore deep into his heart, eroding his confidence.
Every night, one haunting icon gripped his soul, invading his senses.

No amount of bargaining, no measure of persuasion could compel it to leave.
‘Twas a dream, no, a nightmare, from which he could not awaken, relentless in its pursuit.

Running his hands wearily through his hair, he dared to close his eyes.
He hoped, no, he prayed that tomorrow would be different.