I can feel the void around me, I can feel nothing, and I can feel everything.

I will always be fated to see you again no matter how many times I thrust a blade through your stomach, shoot a hole in your heart, squeeze your throat until your neck snaps. I will always be fated to see you again no matter how many times I witness life leave your pathetic corpse.

Again and again, your eyes will grow dull.

Again and again, your body will grow still.

Again and again, your hands will grow limp.

Again and again, I will kill you.

Again and again, you will return.

Why do you insist on torturing me? Why is it that you return every night, even after I’ve drained all the blood from your body, even after I’ve tossed you down a deep, deep ravine, even after I’ve basked in the sound of your pained screams and begs for mercy? You always come and whisper in my ear, chanting again and again,

You are wrong. You are wrong.

No matter how many times I annihilate you, eviscerate you, burn you, you never stop. Your gnarled teeth scrape and screech against my door at night, waking me every time I’m about to fall asleep. Your filthy fingertips press against my pupils harshly, making me shed tears I have no reason to shed. You make me deaf, you make me blind, but just like you, my ears and eyes return the next night, when it is silent, when all I can hear is you.

You are wrong. You are wrong.

No matter how many times I hold hands with someone, how many times I manage to feel warmth, you never stop. Your claws slip into my hands like gloves, piercing through my skin whenever my touch lingers on another too long. Your voice screeches from my throat, guilt building up as you say things I do not want to say.

You are wrong. You are wrong.

No matter how many times I destroy your image, tear it up and sprinkle it out in a damp and infested compost bin, you never stop. Your face overlaps with mine in the mirror, waking in the morning with my fists bleeding from punching yet another into pieces. Your silhouette replaces mine as I curl up in my bed, making me scream silently with lungs that are no longer my own, in a body I do not belong in when you are here with me.

You are wrong. You are wrong.

What am I wrong about? Why am I wrong? Who are you, and who are you to torment me like this? Why won’t you leave me alone, even after I’ve been chasing you off for years?

You are wrong. You are wrong.

“Wrong.” It didn’t always ring in my head like it does now, for so long I was able to ignore it. So why is now the time you’re finally getting to me? Are these my yellowing teeth, are these my fingertips? Are these my hands, is this my voice? Is this my face, is this weak and sickly vessel mine anymore?

Was it ever mine to begin with?

Not a sound leaves our mouth as I begin to tear us apart.

Only a room with six red walls and a floor covered with fleshy debris will give me an answer.

You are wrong. You are wrong.