The next morning

The same noise is there the next time you wake up, this heavy, labored breathing. Except, now, he doesn't wait in the corner for what feels like hours. As he approaches, you keep your eyes wide open; You've spent the entirety of the last day stressing over this new threat, and you've come to the decision that it's best to know what you're facing. When you lay eyes on him, you realize that maybe you should've kept them closed.

He is _fat, _moreso than any man or woman you've ever met. As wide as two large men, with heavy drooping jowls and huge pudgy arms sporting sausage-like fingers. Worse even, his skin is so wet that it shines, and you can see huge drops of perspiration running slowly all over his face and arms. His short brown hair sticks to his skull, and his face is either clean-shaved, or it doesn't have the capacity to grow facial hair. He's wearing an old greasy apron, and sadly, nothing else.

He lets out a satisfied "Gaaaah," and large drops of spit fall all over your face and chest. Except, this doesn't feel like saliva, but rather like thick oil. As if his body is so full of fat that it starts oozing out of him, mixing with his sweat and spit.

You want to scream for help, for the nurse to come save you, but your mouth does not respond to your inputs anymore. Whatever this greasy abomination has in mind for you, you'll have to take it.