Vulture
Um, hinted Schizophrenia and depression, so it might have triggers? I don't know, but you've been warned. Depression is something I've had/scared of having again, so I write from experience on that part.
Hear that voice? The hissing whispers, pleading with you, urging you to do this or that or everything? Do you hear them, Peter?
It's almost a physical thing, materialising in front of you, ready to talk to you. It says, "They don't like you, they're using you Pete. See the way James looks at Lily, no one will ever want to look at you that way, will they?" And you agree; eyes burning, acidic.
You feel a pit of emptiness open in your stomach. It's almost lonely, living like this, living in fear of something that's inside of your head. It's not the monster under your bed, it's the monster inside your head.
You hear the whispers as you stumble blindly through life; they haunt you, never leaving. They're real, the voices and the shadows you see in empty rooms, until you turn around and shake your head.
It's that voice – doubled with the unending loneliness – that drives you over the edge. You were only dangling before, grasping air, and now you're plummeting through nothing, blurs of light flashing through your vision. You land on hard concrete, and you see a fleeting shadow, it takes the shape of your worse nightmare.
The voice urges you forward – you go, don't you? – and you do.
There's a vulture on your shoulder, it's telling you to give in, but it's not a vulture, is it, Pete? It's you; it's inside your head.
Only a drabble.