Beep. 

Beep. 

Beep. 

The soundtrack to his pain for his remaining days. During his month-long September tenure in Rosiva City Hospital, outside of Argentina, Kenyan Burlington had been wired to countless machines with what seemed to be endless uses, yet none of these miracle machines, or “máquinas milagrosas” as his grandma used to say before she was deported, helped him. It was all useless noises and actions, putting him through even more pain instead of getting better. 

The doctors had been familiar with Kenyan. His mother used to work for the hospital, putting in hours upon hours, night shifts that lasted for days, and kept the hospital running like a washing machine in the throes of disposal. He had come with his mother on some occasions if she couldn’t find a babysitter in time for her shift. The staff loved him in the light, and treated him like the vermin he wasn’t. She ended up having a stroke during a checkup on a busy day, and died 2 minutes later. After she passed, the hospital put her name and face on a plaque and hung it in the lobby, like it made them seem mournful or caring, when in reality they had already replaced her with an automated manager that day, similar to how they kept upgrading the hospital with mystery funds coming from an even more mysterious benefactor. Her memory was in the shadow of a shiny new toy with all the fancy bells and whistles you could ever ask for. 

When he arrived for his first day of treatment, the nurses plastered on their thousand dollar smiles and gushed over him, seemingly lathering his slender frame with smooth, jabbing comments. They offered him the best 3-star room they had for the son of a journeywoman, and strapped him to an old machine, a jarring contrast to the sleek modern look of his hospital room he was accustomed to sitting in as a child. It clanked and whirred, booting up and making rustic squeaking noises, mice surely being ground up between each cog, filling Kenyan with an uneasy feeling. But with a smile that would make Heath Ledger frown, they strapped him to a brown cord slithering out of the machine, leaving a racing stripe of grime along the chalk-white floors. With the tap of a few buttons, the machine seemed to roar with a fervor fit for a Dunkerton V-16 racing car and broke his skin, calling his blood to the surface. Kenyan let out a startled whimper. As fast as it came, the cord started vibrating just as fast, turning the outgoing blood into very interesting shades of green, yellow, and white. The nurses smiled, bowed simultaneously, and whirled around, leaving Kenyan lying down confused and woozy. 

Beep.

Beep. 

That's when the voice came. 

It only spoke during doctor visits at first. Small sentences contradicting the doctor's words. Then it was the suggestions to stab himself with the plastic fork they gave him during lunch. Lewd comments to his brother and cousins and the staff when they came by his room. Even with all that, It was easily ignorable, similar to a nagging ad, or a stranger on the sidewalk talking a little too loud on the phone while they eat. 

During the dangerous procedures, It was more silent. Kenyan had faced death more times in this stretch of hospital than his entire life. It scarred him. The longer he was in here, the less family members reached out to him. His phone was silent most of the night, with the occasional buzz of the news faintly coming from his bedside. His mind seemed to be perfectly fine according to doctors, but not to Kenyan. Every time he survived a surgery, It became stronger. The sentences started to turn into paragraphs. The suggestions evolved into commands. The difficulty to ignore and prevail against his turncoat body never stopped rising as he seemed to get closer and closer to ending his own life with the metal utensils provided to him. The comments, which once came slowly, now came tumbling out of his mouth, despite his active attempts to silence them. It was impossible to ignore It. Kenyan became increasingly skinnier and mentally unstable, eventually being strapped to his hospital bed. He could only converse with It at night, when It seemed to be the most active. Even then, It rarely wanted to talk with him. The only exchange they had was about the medicines they gave him to sleep. Kenyan was quietly resting, the medically enhanced melatonin bubbling in his system, when the screams of It scraped at every bone in his body. Kenyan arose with a cry, trying to grab at his head to keep his brain from squirming out his ears. Instead he met leathery restraints, and thrashed around on his bed. He roared, “Shut your damn mouth and get out of my head!”. 

It laughed and simply said, “I am your head.” Very soon, Kenyan’s meds became stronger, and so did It. 

During a routine night, where his head was all too awake during 5:35am, Kenyan tried reaching out to It once more. Through snot and tears, Kenyan tentatively called out, “Who are you?” 

Beep. 

Beep. 

It was silent for a few minutes, and just when Kenyan was going to give up caring, It replied. “I am who you will turn to when you die here.”

Its voice was oddly familiar. It had a sound like knives in a silken bag. His tone both reassured Kenyan and put him on edge. His eyes scrambled wildly around the room, but he only heard the steady sound of his monitor. 

Beep. 

Beep. 

It spoke again. 

“I’ve been here for a very long time, Kenyan. I am the voice you tried to get rid of all those times. I am the name you put to your fears. I am the one you used to call Dronimere.” A dark presence suddenly filled the white room, splashing the walls with demonic color. The early morning light that peeked through the slits at the windows retreated into safety, sensing the danger nearby. 

“I am the reason your arms are covered in scars. I am the reason your neck has an odd bruise around it. I am the person you turned to when the world shunned you after Mom died.” It-Dronimere-spoke all around him, his voice booming across the walls and floor, rattling the bed and disrupting every machine except the old monitor, unaffected by the haunting movements surrounding it. 

Beep. 

Beep. 

“Why speak now? Why is this the time you choose to speak?” Kenyan found his voice returned, cowardly and quieter than before. 

Dronimere suddenly appeared on top of Kenyan, his crusty talons now tearing into the cloth on top of him. His dark, hairy body seemed to cover the entire bed, his presence now smothering him. He was covered in a hooded cloak that seemed to move on its own. It pulsated a sickly red and purple, shapes eerily resembling faces molding and disappearing into the cloth as quick as it came. Dronimere’s eyes blazed a pale yellow above the resting cloak and seemed to bring about a heat that could only have come from the depths of hell. His singular horn left an ugly signature on the pristine ceiling. His filthy snout dripped blood onto Kenyan’s hospital gown, swirling the pale blue fabric with a rusty red. His wrinkled hand outstretched, bloody claws flexing with every movement, towards Kenyan’s forehead. Despite the sweat collecting around his body, he felt like he was laying in a snowbank during a winter storm. 

“Because you, my dear Kenyan, are going to die here.” 

Beep.

His snout twisted and parted into a sick crescent shape, forcing Kenyan to bear witness to the decades of flesh, muscle, and fur Dronimere engulfed during his time in whatever crevice he called home. 

Beep. 

“And I am here to bring you home.” 

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee 

Kenyan’s body suddenly sunk into a deep sleep, halting any chance of movement he once had. “You are alone here.” The doctors ran in and tried waking the body of Kenyan, but to no avail. “Your family has left you to die.” They strapped Kenyan to more machines with louder beeps in an attempt to save his life, his mind still very much awake and very much scared. “There is no one left to care for you.” Dronimere threw his head back and uttered a demonic laugh emanating from the bloated, wrinkled gut, showcasing true, unadulterated joy. “This is your last home!” It fazed none of the staff surrounding Kenyan’s seemingly lifeless body. 

“Aren’t you so excited?!” He screamed, but no sound came out of his mouth. “Welcome to your new life!” With Dronimere watching over Kenyan’s now translucent shoulder, he watched as his heart monitor turned from a mountain range of life to a plain of death. As the room became smaller and farther away, Dronimere asked Kenyan a simple question as he nonchalantly dragged his pale figure, hooking him by the nape of his neck. “Are you ready to come home?” He whimpered in response, “Save me.” 

“Oh, child.” Dronimere swirls Kenyan around, and places a heavy hand upon his shoulder, yellow eyes now ablaze with excitement. The crescent began to form on his lips, and he simply uttered; 

“I am your savior.”