Your cold.

He knows.

You're broken.

He knows.

He'll kill you.

And you want him to.

You aren't afraid.

Not of the dark.

Not of his lights.

Not of his breathing.

But you are afraid.

Because of the smell.

The sound from him.

A ticking.

But no pulse.

You are to be killed.

By a heartless.

Bloodless.

Thing.

He moves.

You feel no pain.

You breathe your last.

And smile once again.