Mid-December

I lie on the vast bed, my eyes hollow as I stare at the crystal glass lamp above. He approaches gently, but his eyes are bloodshot as he stares at me, "Be good, eat this." A bowl of steaming porridge with a bitter taste of traditional medicine. Weakly, I turn my head to look elsewhere. I vaguely remember the time he was sick, I personally fed him a bowl of porridge. Monster! If I had known he would become so deranged, I would not have spared him back then. I would have made sure he met a grim end.