Standard disclaimer applies.
You talk to me sometimes. I thought you'd died. People say I'm cursed. Perhaps I am.
Sometimes I can't wake up in the morning. I feel like there is a demon on my bed, sucking my breath and my soul from my body as I rest, but to open my eyes I would only find myself consumed and left to writhe in torment for the rest of eternity. Sleep no longer comes to me, but every night we resume our false play.
From time to time the demon talks to me. He says that I'm the one who killed you. That I slayed thousands in cold blood. I don't want to believe him, but I can't face him. How can I deny what he says.
It hurts on those mornings. Everything hurts. I'm so tired of this life. The pain is what tethers me here. Soon I will learn not to feel it. Only then will I finally be free.
Sometimes, I still try to kill myself in the hope that maybe, just maybe, this time I will succeed.
I feel fuzzy, floating off to sleep in this halo of red.
Why is it so painful to live?