He says he's a god, that in ancient times temples were erected in his name and sons offered up by their mothers to feed his endless hunger. He says they will again.
In the meantime he has chosen me as his plaything. With his power, he torments me, and in my suffering I entertain him. In his punishments, he is as imaginative as he is powerful.
With a nod of his head, he makes my fingers coil back of their own accord, and giggles as they crack and pop.
With a tap of his foot, he makes thick worms roil in my guts, and chattering roaches crawl underneath my skin, until in desperation I try to cut myself open.
Eyes open or closed, I see only whatever perverse version of reality he wants me to see.
I can't leave the house, can't see anyone, for fear of what vile things he'll make me do, to myself and to others.
He says he's behind all the evils of man - every murder, every rape, every war - but I'm starting to realise he's lying.
He's powerful, but I think he can only concentrate on one thing at a time, and for now that one thing is me. I never would have amounted to anything anyway - bad grades, no ambition, no prospects.
So I accept my role - every day that I continue to entertain him with my screams, my sobbing, my pleading, is a day that he isn't doing this to someone else,
someone who might actually be trying to do something good in this world. He is my burden to bear.