There was a black dog on my back, and he was very heavy. He had been there a while, and he was getting worse-behaved by the hour. He dug his claws between my shoudlerblades and my knees bent alarmingly as I cringed my neck, drops of red hot fear trickling down my spine. He was as black as nothingness. An oblivion. I could not see him. I could merely see a vacuum of darkness; a hole where there was nothing; and nothing was fire and fear and fury. Hell slept, lived, fed on my back. But he wasn't just there for the sake of it. He took advantage of a vengeful feeling fleeting through my mind; he wanted something of me. He wanted revenge and despair and black market mischief. He wanted pain and fear and evil to haunt my mind. Already the fleeting feeling had festered and its virus had spread, conceiving on the way other weaknesses and fleeting evils and festering them too. There was a black dog on my back, and he wanted me to do his will. And I was helpless to his ways.