I slip softly into the realm of consciousness. For a moment, I am warm, calm...comfortable. I am wrapped in a gentle blanket of total bliss.

My limbs slowly try to uncurl from their resting position.

I cannot move.

Panic seizes me.

I thrash violently, terrified, desperately trying to break free of this shroud, this black bag that encases my imprisoned body. I scream, piercingly, endlessly, dark fabric filling my mouth, eyes, soul--

I stop abruptly. There is a hand on my shoulder. It is warm, calm...comfortable. A voice from beyond the black bag murmurs soft words, and I relax. I am still encased, but it's okay. I have the hand, and the voice. They will protect me. I am so happy.

It's okay.

It's okay.

It's okay...

An agonized cry escapes my lips as a knife plunges into my world of darkness. The bright steel tip buries itself in the back of my shoulder, tearing a gaping wound in my flesh, then withdrawing to leave an open avenue for the seeping blood.

I hurt.

The knife stabs again, this time missing my body but tearing a hole in the fabric where I can twist to peer outside.

I bite my lip against the agonizing pain and press my eye to the hole. There is light out there, beyond my shroud. It hurts my eyes, but I know it is good--I know it like I know that the red leaking from my shoulder is of my own body.

But it's out there. Not in here. I can't get to it.

I roll to lie on my back, hoping to stop the blood from flowing. I remain still for a moment, breathing slowly, forcing myself to be calm. If I panic, I will breathe fast. If I breathe fast. my heart will beat fast. If my heart beats fast, I will bleed more. I must not bleed more, or I will die.

I must not die.

But, oh, it seems so welcoming. This hurts so much. Death...warm, calm...comfortable. Death means darkness, but that is no different from what I have now. Darkness.

No.

I must not die.

There are other voices, now. They are drawn by the blood.

Like animals.

They can see the weakness.

They try to touch me with their hands, but I cry out and recoil, so they stop. But, they still talk. Words of comfort. I listen, carefully, cautiously, wary of the hands. Hands that hurt.

They don't try to touch me again. They are gone soon enough.

I am alone again.

Cold, anxious...discomforted.

This is all I have. This is all I can see. I have nothing but darkness. I can see light, but it is not mine. It belongs to the outside.

All I have is hurt

Now there is another voice. He speaks comfort.

He does not try to touch me.

But, I am wary. The voices always bring fear and hurt. I do not want fear. I do not want hurt. But, oh, I want to relax. I want to be warm. I want to be calm. I want to be comfortable.

I want to be happy.

So, I listen. The voice talks and talks and talks, and I lose myself in the words. I forget my wound. I forget the hands. I forget my black bag.

I live and breathe those words.

I am so surrounded by the words that I do not notice when his hand slowly, carefully touches the bag. Still he talks. Still I am lost within his voice.

Quickly, a knife slashes, once, twice, three times. I snap from my reverie and cry out in terror.

But I am unharmed. Instead, the black bag falls away, pieces of dark fabric flopping limply to the ground. I squeeze my eyelids shut against the blinding light. His hand touches mine, and I pull away. Hands bring hurt. Hands bring hurt.

My eyes adjust to the unfamiliar brightness. He is standing above me. His hand is still held out, tentatively offering. His face is kind. Warm, calm...comfortable. There is no malice in that face.

I take his hand.

He pulls me to my feet. He washes my wound with a warm, wet cloth.

The bleeding stops.

His hand touches my face, and I hesitate. Hands bring hurt...don't they?

He smiles, and the darkness in my heart melts. Just a little bit.

It's okay.

It's okay.

It's okay.

Warm, calm...comfortable.