They discharged me at 5am. I had a long sleep before my usual routine. Brush my teeth, coffee and cigarettes, a good lunch. Then I had to check my emails, send files, a monotonous cycle of everyday work.

I logged out. That way the site redirects to the local news. A fatal road accident, politics, celebrity news. Nothing unusual.

I ran my fingers on the bandage around my neck. My mother was knocking at my door, agitated, wondering if I'm okay. She was talking to someone on Skype while I sat down in the kitchen to help myself with leftover food. She noticed the plate in the sink and assumed I was finally awake.

I reeked of sweat and alcohol. I hadn't shed myself from last night's clothes. My collar was still tainted and now caked with blood. My face was soiled. I wondered how I slept with that much discomfort. I always take a long shower before I sleep. I must have been extremely exhausted.

I composed myself, soiled clothes and all, like a stuffed roadkill. I swung open my door and looked at her straight in the eye. "I'm fine," I said. My voice sounded more like a croak.

"For Christ's sake, Calvin! Take a shower!" my mother exclaimed.

At 8 p.m., I grabbed a towel and a pack of cigarettes from my desk. I shut the bathroom door, sat naked on the toilet bowl and lit a cigarette.

Gauze and surgical tape on my neck, no stitches at all. Only a thick layer of Providone-iodine suddenly reeking from under my chin as I tore the bandages off. I shrugged, took a whiff, and sat up, disposing the stick into the bowl.

The water was warm. It felt like Marcy pressing against me. I ran my fingers around my neck. All the while the shower was on, I was still, thinking, reflecting.

How will I run into her again? Do I have to endanger myself in one of those dark, mugger-infested alleyways? No, there may be others like her, I might die.

How long until someone like her would feed again?

I'm going mad. She's prying my skull open to grind it with a blender. That refuse of a girl. That mischievous phantom.