It's inside me, gnawing and growling if I pay too much attention.
I try to ignore it as good as I can. It's dangerous. Isntead, I concentrate on my job. I am a photographer.
Everything started pretty harmless. My parents always said I had a vivid imagination. And not too many friends. But it was okay, I played with imaginary people. That's probably still one of their favorite tales to tell, I guess. I haven't seen them in a while.
They tried to make up for it, by buying a hamster. The hamster died shortly after.
They didn't give me another pet. But that was okay, I had taken pictures of it. You know, I had this tiny camera. Nothing fancy, not like those you can buy today, with this digital stuff and all. It was a birthday present.
I guess I did quite well in school, but still I had no friends. And slowly I came to realize what my imaginary friends were. IT. I heard it at night, just out of reach.
Sometimes I thought my parents were scared of me, when I brought along homeless pets. You might say I collected them. Parts of them, that is.
These days, I have a fancy digital camera, of course. However, I also still have this collection. Pictures of my hamster, hanging dead from the ceiling fan. Last pictures of my parents, terror in their eyes. Together with several boxes filled with furry ears and tails.