He recalls his meager beginnings. Initially training to be a priest, good and evil were so clearly defined for him. His later exposure to different ideals. He remembers how strongly they resonated with him. His early beginnings with the Party,his climb up the ranks until he reached the top group of important individuals. His inner conundrum: power or his morals? And then his conniving, power hungry actions to seize the most influential position in the country. He dismisses the memory.

He lazily folds his hands on his desk and muses to himself. Soon, the entire nation would be undyingly devoted to him and solely him. His constantly rotating cast of party officials, all bending to his will with no objections to save their insignificant skins from his notorious wrath, would all be executed and replaced within the near future: the very firstlings of his heart became the firstlings of hand. 

He drummed his fingers on the desk, his eyes skimming the latest list laid out in front of him. Like so many lists before, he scanned the names of spies, saboteurs and individuals guilty of other political crimes, all destined to be sent to labour camps where they would inevitably die, like the innumerable others before them. He absentmindedly scrawls his signature on the line and leans back in his chair. A persistent itch had been bothering him for the last while, just unreachable in the back of his head. He lifts the daily newspaper, skimming through the propaganda until his eyes land on one particular line - a mockery of his accent? He immediately issues an order for that particular author to be found and shot. 

The itch persists, tearing at his brain and gnawing at his every thought. He looks outside, hoping for the afternoon sunshine to distract him but a consuming, dark night had strangled the travelling lamp. Shaking his head and blaming his ageing eyesight, he returns to the task at hand. He thinks of the chaos that has erupted beneath him. The head of the secret police gave order after order for an organised and calculated purge of counter-revolutionaries and other misbehavers. Such bloody instructions will return to plague and eventually consume their inventor. Now deemed to be infirm of purpose, this head of police was next to be executed. The man now looks out again, feeling grateful for the unusual darkness outside - “Let not light see my black and deep desires”, he murmurs. “I have scorched the snake but not killed it”, he muses to himself as he thinks of all the other party members who must be exterminated. 

The creak of the door to his apartment causes his wife to rise with a start. Anxiously, she hustles the little ones out of the living room. She greets him and takes off his coat. The itch is growing unmanageable now. Driving him mad. He gruffly wishes a good night to the wife and retires to bed. 

He wakes with a start, panting and gripping the sheets with a steely hold. He thought he had heard a voice cry “Sleep no more! You’ve murdered so many that you’ve murdered sleep too, great nature’s chief nourisher in life’s feast, therefore you shall sleep no more!” He gets up, the itch now morphing into a throbbing, sore spot consuming his skull. “Out damned spot! Out I say!” . He grabs his coat and runs out of the building, into the violently pounding rain.

The faces came to him all at once. Some familiar, others he’d never recognise. Haunting him. “Your bones are marrowless, your blood is cold!” he exclaims. They press closer to him. Enclosing him, stifling him. Fear paralyses him, gall courses through his veins.