My mother committed suicide when I was twelve. She didn't leave much behind. Only the virus. I can feel the beetles under my skin. The spiders eating my brains. The vultures watching me. They call it depression. I call it hell. Goat lives inside my head. He's found a way to pass over from nightmares to reality. I'm a projectionist. I keep the old motion pictures rolling. I fantasise a lot about murder. This is the tale of my first.