It might have been someone's mother, once.

I think this while It strokes hair from my face with cold hands. It does this often, probably even when I am asleep, though I don't like to think about that. It's gentle. The kiss It presses to my forehead, too, speaks of kindness.

I hold my breath. It smells like dead flowers. Its lips are clammy and stick to my skin. It could bite me, I think. It could scratch my eyes out with Its clawed hands, rip the hair from my head.

It retreats at last, a shapeless shadow.

I sleep.