Ten hours passed by the time Marshall regained consciousness. I spent most of the time he was out in the room—not far from his side—and thinking of all the questions I had. I decided I wasn't able to answer them. I couldn't figure out why I lost control, but I knew I must try never to do it again. As for the foreign feelings running through me, the only conclusion I could come up with was that they came from Marshall, somehow. I wasn't sure, but it occurred to me that they didn't start until my teeth ripped into his throat.

The entire time Marshall was unconscious, the pain remained. It had started with extreme intensity, and yet, it seemed to increase more over time. It was when I felt fear added to the pain that I realized he must be awake, and then the screaming started again. I should have expected it when the pain had obviously worsened, but the screaming still threw me off guard. I was scared, not knowing what was going on or what to do. I thought about taking him to the hospital, but I instinctively knew they wouldn't be able to help. So, I sat there, watching. Hearing his screams. Feeling what I could only guess was his pain.

"Do you need a drink or maybe something to eat? You've gotta be hungry," I asked every-so-often between screams, and he would try to shake his head before another wail rang throughout the room.

He stared at me. His eyes, glassy and red from the steady flow of tears, burned with agony.

"Marshall, I don't know what's going on. Just tell me what hurts. Maybe I can find a way to help, but I can't if I don't know what's causing you so much pain. Please!" I pleaded with him.

"EVERYWHERE, EVERYTHING HURTS!" he yowled.

I didn't have any medication in the house, with the only exception of a first-aid kit to clean and dress wounds, and some really potent sleeping pills that I used to dose people. So, I did what I could. I got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Then I crushed up two pills, stirred them into the water, and returned to the room with the mixture. I only assumed that the pain would be more manageable for him if he was knocked out.

"Okay, Marshall, I need you to drink this. All of it. It might help, or it might not, but it couldn't hurt to try." I made my voice as reassuring as possible.

Getting him to drink was harder than I thought it would be because he could only refrain from screaming for a very short time. It took a good half-hour for him to drink the whole glass, due to the several bouts of choking he had. After finishing the mixture, he was out in less than fifteen minutes. He continued to groan—extremely loudly—in his unconscious state, but it was better than the screaming.

I sat down on the bed next to him and began to survey the scar on his neck. It didn't seem as pronounced as it had been the night before, but instead, it actually appeared to be fading. Maybe even disappearing. Then my attention began to draw elsewhere. All the veins around the wound stretching to his jawline, collarbone, and around his neck looked blackened under his skin.