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I can hear it. It's scrabbling again.

I can feel it clawing at the very edge of my sanity with talons like jackknives and teeth like razors, trying to find any inkling of purchase in the soft, sweet flesh of my insides.

That's where it likes to live, likes to grow. Likes to feed and sit and wait for the right moment to stir, to attack. To sink its fangs into my once innocent flesh and watch me writhe in pain with malevolent eyes. It enjoys that. It enjoys that far too much. Sadistic thing that it is.

The doctors took most of it out. Or at least they thought they did. Removed a length of corrupted, sick intestine in an effort to remove it, to make me well again. And for that I thank them, with all the love in my heart. But they didn't get it all. No. Not even close. It's still in there, waiting patiently, biding its time. Feeding on my sweet, sweet sorrow and slowly growing, growing into something malicious and corrupted and twisted and evil like a tumour that has been assigned one thing and one thing only:

To cause pain.

It's scrabbling again. I can hear it. Can feel it. The pain is coming soon, but it's better to ignore it. If there's one thing the demon has taught me, it's how to ignore, how to embrace the pain. And that is the only thing I thank it for.

You filthy twisted thing. You're dead lucky I took the time to thank you for something, no matter how unwanted it was.

People commend me for having a high pain tolerance.

Sometimes I wonder if they have any idea as to why.