He wore a white mask, so I could only see is the eyes. They were like dry blood, black and crusty, caverns of broken victims filled with the terror he brought upon them. His large hands inch slowly to my arm. I try to pull back, to escape, but he grabs ahold. His hands are cold, like he had died. I shiver. His fingers grip tighter, like a crow's claws rapping around a dead carcass. He pulls one hand away and brings it back. I scream. A sharp syringe is clasped in his right hand. "Pls.. Don't," I cry. He plunges it into my skin. Blood trickles down my arm as I shriek.

Looking back I am oddly grateful that I got the Flue shot.