He grabs my forearm with his hands, stained with blood, and turns me towards him. “You shouldn’t have come here, swallow,” I jerk as if from a blow and quickly look into his face. And he can’t take his eyes off my neck, from the wildly beating vein under my thin pink skin, but he continues, “Why don’t you listen?” I am choked with the understanding that in front of me he is my observer. - Is it really you? I thought I was going crazy. Take me away Take me away from here. He is silent, grabbing me around the waist and pressing his fingers painfully. I can't see, but they've probably turned white. Tension and some kind of torment freeze in his face. But something subtly changes, his eyes quickly acquire a predatory squint. And with doubt and coldness he says: “And now you’re not afraid of me?”