[Gared,] the voice oozed, leaving a trail of… uncomfortable across my mind. I could feel his presence, riding over each ridge and synapse. I stared at the desk, my hands diligently at work while I though more about my mental guest. My mentalgeist? Mindgeist? Polterbrain? For minutes my brain fired off words to offset the pain.

[Gared,] it crooned.

“What,” I whispered, focusing the on the sawing motion intently.

[Are you finished, Gared?]

A tear rolled down my face and dropped off my chin to meld with the growing pool of blood. I finished the one section and I dropped the serrated blade to pick up the torch. I had to cauterize it or I’d bleed out again, and then he’d bring me back.

That’s the worse part of it all: the being yanked back from the arms of sweet lady Death to do this all over again; a new hand, a more wicked blade.

“You know I’m not.”

A laugh, similar to the feeling of nausea, rippled through my mind. Around me, there were other desks, other tortured souls.

I picked up the knife again.