The patient

I fed it a rat every night. I would leave it in a box under my bed and the next day there were bones. Now it doesn´t want to eat anymore, instead, it wants to lick my feet when 

I´m in bed. It pains me for the tongue is coarse and stings... it leaves wounds like slashes. But I let it, you see, I don´t want to make it angry and I´m afraid it will ask me to call someone else again. The last time I did, Mom was the choice. I was very upset about that. Mom had seen my feet but they healed so fast that no doctor would believe her. In the mornings it wispered to me, told me things about people I know, about my family. They said at the hospital that the voices would get better with the pills. They were wrong. Now it´s demanding that the house be burned, that I make a fire with matches and fuel and Mom´s books. It promises that in the light I will see it´s face, and hers too. Oh, I really want to see Mom... so I will. Why did she insist on taking me to another doctor? That forced me to take care of her. It murmurs that I have to sit still and breathe... that the fire didn´t hurt the witches, or Joan of Arc. "Who´s that?" I ask. It just laughs while I start coughing.