#inspo outlast whistleblower

Dreams of him – that distorted version of him – brushing against your skin take over your mind. The thick grime covering his hands, the feeling of it too foreign for you to ever forget, stands out against the fuzzy recollections of him your memory can bring to the surface. 

God, those dreams were common. Not nightmares, no. Something else. Something drowned in static and haunting, that leaves you waking in a cold sweat, aching for those hands against your skin again, aching for the promises left unkept by that twisted version of him - your tears calling out for him in the night just as much as your screams do.