No windows in the hut. Dirt floor. Bugs, just in his mind or really under his skin? Can't tell.
Can't sleep. Dreams anyway. Moonlit gasps changing Technicolor red as demon and soul wrestle. Pillow feathers stabbing his eyes, softness turning sour in the stench of his past.
At first, he ignores the whispers tugging spider-web thin hooks through his skin, promising proper punishment. Enticing smells of leather coat, girl shampoo, ocean zephyr come next. Memories of her braid his gut.
Eventually, he must go. Has to look at her through the windows of his soul.
To see. And be seen.