When I wake up, the room is only lit by a lamp in the corner. Most of my vision is clear, now, but dark spots are still dancing across my irises.

Though I can't see that well, I try to take in my surroundings. I look to be back in my own bedroom, though I have no idea how. The last thing I remember is passing out on Richard Bellingham's floor, so how on earth did I get here?

Then, suddenly, there is a loud bang sounding from the kitchen. Well, a bang and a string of vehement expletives.

"Aggh! Blasted thing! I knew I shouldn't have done this until he was awake."

The uninvited house-guest speaks in an interesting accent. It's English, but with a little bit of something else in it. I vaguely wonder where he comes from.

After thinking that, I regain enough sense to wonder why he is in my house and if I should call the police.

But I don't have time to wonder anymore when he suddenly bursts into my room.

"Ah, Mister Dimmesdale! Your temperature has broken, at last, I see. I was very worried about you last night. You tend to...prattle on when pyrexic, but at least now you are awake and coherent."

What could I possibly have said this time? My mother always told me about how I would speak in my half-sleep for hours on end, never knowing what I said when I woke up.

"Yes, yes, I have come to." Whoa. The sound of my own voice scares me. I can barely speak. "But, sir, I have to ask. Who are you and why are you in my home?"

The man leans on the edge of my bed. "Well, if you must know, my name is Roger Chillingworth, and I am a physician. Now, kindly shut up. I can tell that your voice is hurting you - and me, for that matter. You sound like a dying frog."

Well, then, aren't you a rude man? I think to myself.

"How did you get in here? Who sent you?"

"The governor, of course. Who else? Has your sudden fit disturbed your little brain this awfully?"

I look away from his disturbing, slate-gray eyes and push myself up to sit.

"Mister Chillingworth, I assure you that I will no longer be requiring your care. I'll be perfectly fine in a few days."

He frowns disturbingly, pushing me back to lie down. "Nonsense, Reverend. You must get your rest; you are no good to anyone in this state."

I feel my eyes roll slightly. "Sir, I beg of you. Leave me in peace. I only wish to rest by myself for the moment."

"I thought as much," he answers. "Good, good. I'll take my leave, then. Sleep well, sir." The man smiles crookedly, his uneven teeth showing.

"Yes...thank you."

As soon as he leaves the room, I stand weakly and go to the hearth in front of my bed. There, on the mantle, rests a whip. My fingers curl around it and I slowly take it from its place.

My hand forces my shirt open, exposes the blasted letter on my chest that marks me as a man of sin.

The whip cracks one, two, three, four times, each one growing louder. Louder because I need to hear it over my mortal screams. Screams of my demons leaving my body.

But what right do I have to hurt them? They are still part of me, are they not?