The dim light of the moon filters through the window, illuminating the room enough for Toby's figure to be outlined in the darkness. The room is small, almost empty. A pair of dark leather gloves thrown to the side, his bed a mess, cigarette butts scattered all over the place.

The boy is sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall. His right leg shakes uncontrollably. His fingers play with the sleeve of his hoodie, stretching it, twisting it. Suddenly, he makes a sudden movement, a twitch that shakes him completely. He breathes deeply, but his lips move on their own, mumbling meaningless words. He was in one of his attacks, again. He had had this feeling for a couple of days, with these memories that invaded his mind. The weight of his trauma seemed like something he would never be freed from, no matter how much time passed. His eternal curse. The cut that always bleeds.

You knew something was wrong. You hadn't seen Toby in a while, and you knew that losing him from your sight always meant something bad. That's why you decided to go take a look at his room, to make sure that, at least, he was still alive. When you arrive you knock on his door, although there is no answer. You can hear a couple of muffled sobs and unintelligible words behind the door. Your worry increases when you hear a loud hit. You're not sure Toby wants you there, but your worry for him grows with each passing second.