Don't you know about them?
My voices? No, didn't think you would, too weird for you I'll bet.
My voices. They speak to me. Tell me horrible things.
I know how you're going to die. I know how I'm going to die. I see the wounds in your flesh as you ask me how I feel, why I did it. I see the shot in between my mothers eyes, fired when I have no more strength left to fight my voices. When I give in to what they want from me. I have to stare at myself every morning in the mirror, gashes all over me, running down my body. I cry tears of blood for the people the voices hate.
The ones the voices want me to end.
Oh go on. Take one look at me and say: "Drug addiction. Hallucinations. Quite normal to hear voices." But you don't understand. No one apart from me knows.
Why do you think I take drugs?
Because I'm lazy?
Wrong. I want to take these drugs. They calm the voices, numb them.
Drugs stop the voices hurting. They do. The voices can't stand them and run away. I always feel I've won another round when they run, do you realise? No. Didn't think you would.
Because you don't hear the voices.
And they don't like you.
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