my conscience has a conscience because it needs something to keep itself going. There's a whole nest of them, all with an overwhelming feeling of hatred towards me. They love seeing my blood spilt, for that causes me pain, and they thrive on pain. Every day, they tell me to go and jump off a bridge, to swallow more pills than I need for the aching headache they cause in my head. A cacophony of voices screeching with harsh voices for my blood, my pain, my death, my hurt, my tears, my screams, my wails, my deathly desires, the stinging, the pain, the love for the pain, so much of the pain. They need more and more of that sweet, delicious pain. If they could drink my blood they could, but no. At least not directly. Instead, they scream at me forever, with demands for their purchase of blood, except I get nothing in return. Every decade, year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, millisecond, microsecond and nanosecond they leech off my thoughts and replace them with ones shaded crimson red. Each one of the millions and billions of raging voices battering in my skull is trying to kill me. I even went to a doctor about it, I told him of all of the demands of these screaming, screeching, howling, wailing, demanding, angry, masochistic, pain-sucking voices, and he did nothing but become one of them. He even handed me a scalpel, and then I stabbed myself in the foot.
The next day, I slipped on the gravel and broke my collarbone. The voices in my head were so happy, they raged and raved and chanted and sang with pleasure, and as they screamed and raged, and howled, it got worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and worse andworseandworseandworseandworsendwrseanwrseawrseawrawrwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww and I howled at the ceiling, I howled at the moon, for what could it do? It only served to please the voices more, as I strained and stressed and stripped and ripped and tore and split and destroyed my vocal cords, until I was nothing but a whisperer, but a whisperer who could scream, a whisperer with blood dripping from his mouth, her ears, her nose, her eyes, the follicles of her hair, the holes she had torn in herself in her adrenaline-induced rage, and it still wasn't enough. She screamed at himself, she screaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamed gutturally, if only to tear more holes in her mouth to bleed from.
And then I was no longer a whisperer, but a screamer, a screecher, a maniac. And I eventually thought to myself, amidst the din of words and demands and red,red,red,red,red,red,red,red,red,red and red forever, that I might break free of myself, but I was immediately beaten down into even more of a pulp than the sad, pathetic lump of meat, bone and clothes that I already was, and they burrowed and ate and tunneled and murdered into me, that, even if they could not do so in real life, they could cause as much pain to me as my feeble brain could imagine, until the pain center of that feeble brain decided to give up and say, 'No, I can't take it anymore. Give to the rest of this lump of greyish meat', and so it spread, lightning-quick, quicker even than the flow of blood from the holes ripped and torn into me, that flow of red seeping through my brain, and my brain was pain forever, pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and it would be so forever, until all the friends in my brain gave me an easy way out, and combined their efforts to make me bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed out so much that I would feel sweet relief.
But they decided that they couldn't do that, for it would rob them of the pain, the pain that was their only reason to live, and even as I sat here, writing of these thoughts, they were thinking to themselves too, and they could not have it, for it would break them, like they broke me, and I was thinking of just trying to end it myself. I gathered the necessary tools. A noose, a knife (my favourite one), a store of alcohol, a train ticket to let me through the barriers, a gun, a pass for the viewing platform of the lighthouse at the blood-red seaside, the one that would be my final rest, if the friends in my head would ever let me stop and stop and stop, and would give me rest. The day came, as I summoned myself from the pile of crimson sludge on the floor, next to the keyboard that I am somehow still writing this on, and I trudged for miles toward that place. The final place. The end place. The termination place. I swallowed the pills. I put my head through my loop of happiness. I drank a bottle of wine, broke it against the stone, and mashed it against my wrist, giving that sweet release again. And I did it again, and again, and again, and then suddenly they chorused, "XXXXXX! What have you been doing?!" The millions of them sang in a grating voice, "You know that you're not allowed to tell others what you feel! You know that! We'll stop you soon!" and again, and again, again, and agai-
"We are sorry for what you have heard. None of this is true. You cannot have this child. She is ours. To love. To have. Forever. Ours."