It's quiet now. And he's just sitting there, crouched in the corner, breathing slowly, frozen in place, cold. Resting beside him, crimson ice, the bloodied, lifeless body of a man, face covered by a mask. He hasn't called the police yet, not a single thought has crossed his mind. It's been two hours since the struggle and still all there is, is the loud buzz of silence in his ears, a deafening ringing, an emptiness wrapped in terror. And in the dead of night, a full moon casting dim light over the horrific scene through a shattered window. 

Just two hours ago he had been lying in bed, fixated on the ceiling as sleep evaded him. he  had heard a thud and the creaking of a door. For a minute he stayed there, frozen and tense, convincing himself that what he had heard was just another instance of paranoia induced by insomnia. Unable to appease his fear he slowly drew up, he could just make out the outline of a metallic pen on the bookshelf by the door. he picked it up slowly, held it tight near his chin. How long it would take waiting there to convince his mind that the noise was just dreamt up he did not know. 

Some time passed and standing there, his eyes became heavy, he began to summon the courage to move back towards the bed. One careful step to the right. Then a shuffling. Something was headed up the stairs! He clenched the pen and tried to steady his breath. 

First a faint shadow, then a looming figure, face covered completely by a mask. It entered the room and approached the bed. This was his moment. He ran to the figure from behind and rammed it with his shoulder. The figure fell forward into the window, sending the frame crashing to the ground below. Then he felt it, a terrifying, insatiable lust. He began stabbing the masked figure, on the neck, then when it turned, in the eye, countless times on the chest, again and again as it screamed and grabbed at him. Soon it was silent.

There was a light, just as bright as any other,

but it went dark, just as will every other.

Over it's course it flickered many times,

nearly went out before its time on some stormy nights.

But here we are, gathered round in memory.

This is the mark it left.