You don't know how long you lie there on the rug for, huddled in a ball, clutching at the poker and weeping, and you don't care. You don't care if you don't ever move again.

After a while you begin to calm, and you dare to stretch out your cramped legs, then roll onto your back. You stare up at the ceiling in a daze. Some of the candles in the candelabra have burned out. The fire is almost dead too and it's getting cold again. You should stoke it.

But you can't do anything right now. All you can do is lie there, wondering how you can still be alive. You shouldn't be alive. After what you did to him, how could he just leave you?

The things you make me feel. I've been looking for you for a long time.

It's all a lie, or if not a lie, it's craziness.

You're not human.

Utterly ridiculous. This whole situation is utterly ridiculous.

You sit up with a groan, then climb to your feet, using the couch to steady yourself. You reach between your legs with a wince.

'Yuck.' You're so wet down there it's all over your thighs. With nothing to wipe yourself down with, you do your best to ignore it. You're all sticky too, from the lotion and from where he sucked your breasts. You can smell him all over you. You would dearly love a shower.

You go to the fire and give it a little poke. Flames lash. A cloud of ash puffs into the air. Once that's done, you look around the room. You look at the bed, suddenly feeling very tired. All the stress and anxiety and fear have sapped you of energy. Your thighs are tight. Your heart's still beating too fast.

Then you look over to the desk. You've forgotten there was food. As though someone's flicked a switch in your brain, you suddenly feel hungry, ravenous. You go over and lift one of the closhes. It's some kind of meat and vegetable dish. You poke at the meat unenthusiastically.

You lift the closhes off the other dishes: fish, chicken, and what might be venison, the blood oozing around it in a puddle. Sitting down, you pull the first dish to you and eat the surrounding vegetables.

When you've taken your fill and drunk some water, you stagger over to the bed and collapse into it.

You're in the middle of a strange dream. You're running through a stone maze, a labyrinth. You're breathless. You're sweating. Something is chasing you, but when you turn to look behind you, you see nothing but more stone walls.

At a sudden noise, you look up. It's one of those 'men' who took you. The blonde one. His wings are beating hard through the air as he follows you, looking dark against the bright sun. As you look up, he looks down. Then he descends.

You try to run faster but it proves difficult when you're giggling so hard. Why are you giggling? This is serious! You snort with laughter as he grips you around the waist and pulls you to the ground. You flail your fists in his face as you try to fight him off, but he simply brushes your hands aside. He doesn't take his time, ripping off your pyjama top. He turns you over to rip off your pants before turning you back over again. You kick out but he grabs your foot and kisses the inner side of your ankle. His eyes are dark and intent.

Nothing's going to stop him.

He grabs your face as he kisses you. His tongue slides against your lips. His hands—they're on your breasts, they're on your hips. He slides his hand between your legs.

No. Not his hand.

He's deep inside you, pushing, thrusting as he pants in your face. His eyes are glazed; he doesn't seem to see you, all his focus bent on his own pleasure. But you feel pleasure too, like you never have before. At every penetration your body tingles, then burns, making you gasp, making you cry out.

He moves faster until you can't keep up. You grab onto his arse, trying to make him thrust harder, deeper, but no matter how hard you try you can't finish before he does. It disappoints you. Men have always been a disappointment.

Then he's gone. Just like that, he pulls out of you and leaves you to your dissatisfaction.

Typical.

But your dream is far from done. One after the other, more monstrous men chase you through the stone maze. Some have horns, others have tails, a few have wings—but they all want one thing.

You.

One by one they catch you and take you, sometimes on a bed that miraculously appears out of nowhere. Sometimes on the grass. Once it's even in the air. And you don't try to stop them. None of them. In fact, you're laughing as you pretend to get away from them. And when they catch you, you spread open your thighs and enjoy yourself. You enjoy yourself so much that you keep asking for more.

They oblige. More and more arrive to have you, from the front, from behind, sometimes you do it with more than one at the same time. The number of monsters is endless. Your pleasure reaches new heights, but it's not perfect. Far from it. Like the man with the wings, they manage to stimulate you in ways you've never felt before, but there is no climax. You don't finish. Just like in reality, you're inevitably dissatisfied.

Then he comes along.

Just as the last monster scurries away, you see him. Unlike the others, he doesn't chase you. He doesn't need to chase you. Just like he said, you've been waiting for him.

You sit up, leaves in your hair, grazes down your legs. You feel your last lover's semen trickling hotly down your thigh. It suddenly disgusts you. It's not them you want. It's him. He's the one you've been after this whole time. The others were just poor excuses for the real thing. Shadows of real men. Fakes.

Pretend.

Not like him. He towers over you, his arms folded, his head bowed as he glares at you with those startling snake eyes. His black horns shine like onyx in the sunlight. Oh, how you want to touch them again, how you want to smooth them through your hands.

How could you have ever thought him a monster? He's perfect: his red, hard body, his fascinating mind.

His anguish.

Loneliness is like a cancer in the soul.

You hold out your arms to him. 'Come to me.'