The small red droplets blurred as Michael's vision swam as the sweat dripped into his eyes. He ground his teeth together and forced his screaming muscles to stand, and then run. Robert had pulled ahead when Michael twisted his ankle and fell cutting his hands on the small red pebbles that made up the track. Robert crossed the line a full two seconds before Michael. With the Olympic time trials in just two weeks Michael knew that his chances of beating Robert were slim. It was the third time this week, thought Michael. The third time that Robert had beaten him. It was the third time and Michael hated it. The nightmares had come back and with the the scratches. One morning Michael had woken up to find a bruise that extending from his left hip all the up to his sternum. He couldn't remember what had happened on the night, and that terrified him more than the actual purple flesh. Michael might not have realized it, but he was loosing his mind, slowly and surely it was rotting away. The process had started when his father had first forced him to go to camp with his brother, and had continued through the rest of his life. The pressure it seemed had finally built up to a tempest, and it wouldn't be long before the storm hit shore.