They’re In The Corner

Do you hear them? I’ve been hearing them for days. They’re in the corner. Always behind me. They hate me. They want me dead. They’re there but they’re not–I think I may be losing my mind–they’re real but they’re not real, but they’re there though and I know because, I hear them. They started off just muffled noises, fragmented sounds, but they grew, forming words and phrases: “Fuck you,” They tell me, over and over. “Fuck you,” They tell me, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” I hear them all day long.

I’m an asshole, one just said–just now–and two others just laughed agreeing. “Fuck you,” another one said, just now, in this moment as I remark. They’re all laughing. Such moments display the worst; their weaponry, it’s mild, although insidious, it feels like feathers–each utterance they drop, each barb which they throw–it’s never too heavy, never too sharp. But as I sit here in this room, and as the day builds, as the sediment collects, the weight on my shoulders becomes too great.

Before I sleep, each night, I am suffocated beneath their feathers. I sleep, simply to escape the burden of this weight. I’ve never slept for more hours-per-night in any point through the course of my adult life. I sleep so much now because, in my dreams they cannot find me. My dreams are peaceful. But from the moment I wake, they’re back–they’re in the corner, they’re attacking me, with their incessant little feathers.

Perhaps I’m going schizophrenic. I wouldn’t know this if I were, and I’m not qualified to make that call, but from what I read, I believe it’s possible. I’ve had, in my life one slightly grand delusion, for quite some time, that being a pervasive thought that others are perhaps reading my mind–as if, my thoughts are made broadcasted–as absurd as I do realize this sounds and I do, the thought of it, for me, is unshakable.

I manage to live with this delusion however, and quite easily at that, because no matter how intrusive it ever became, I always knew, at my core, it was simply impossible to be true. For this reason and for this reason alone, I question whether it may even be a delusion. But in the time I’d spent explaining this, I was told to go fuck myself, three times, each time from the corner. I’d never hallucinated before in life, but it appears now that I am. And to hallucinate, as surely I do, I understand it to be unbearable.

“Wow,” one just said, sardonically, as if to insist to me I’m being dramatic. And for a quick second, I give it credence. Not the prospect of his or her existence, though, but his or her opinion that I am being dramatic. I give it credence. For just a second.

Two days ago, in a steep mood of depression I found myself sitting in my chair, in this room, narrating to the walls details of my mood. I hadn’t seen anyone, anyone human that is, for days. I told the walls I’d wanted to kill myself. The voices answered to me this: “do it.” Over and over, they told me this, “Do it,” they said, as if calling me out.

Sometimes I’ll tell them, and–as I’d done on that day when they’d insisted I should kill myself, I’ll tell them: “You know what, fuck you. Yeah, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, all of you. None of you are shit. Fuck you.” Or something like that. I will tell them.

Oftentimes I do spit the venom back. At least, now I will, I spit the venom right back. And, ever so strangely is that effective; they feel the venom, just as I do. Or, the feathers I mean. But they do. I’ll hear them quiver. Until the end of the day, though, when I’m sapped of my strength, that’s when they beat me. That’s when they win. That’s when the feathers weigh too much, when I’m buried beneath, when I cannot move. That’s when they win. They win, every single time. Every single day. They win. They always win, it just takes them a while, as in, all day. “So stupid,” one just said to me. “Fuck you,” I tell it right back, with my finger.

With all this before me, what I make of it, is that no, the voices are not real. They are a defective product of my mind. That’s what it is. That’s what they are. And I acknowledge this. But be they real or not real, they are though true, and with me that makes them more than real enough.

As I sink now in this chair, and I close my eyes, as I drift into the working a deep sleep, a slice of me worries I may be pushing my luck. I spit the venom back, I do. I’m trying to adapt. I am. I’ve even managed to make a lemonade of sorts: sometimes they will tell me fuck you when I do something well, and so I gather from this, they are jealous of me. And when this happens, I’ll enjoy a sharp rise in my mood. That’s lemonade.

They’re talking right now, but I’m not sure what they’re saying. It’s all muffled. They’re in a frenzy of some sort, like they’re having a meeting. A slice of me worries I may be pushing my luck. After all, I have pinpointed the silver lining: though the voices are real or, real enough, they are locked by a certain proximity: they cannot reach me. I posit from this they may never hurt me. At least not physically. So long as I do remain mentally tough, so long as my spirit remains unconquered, they may not hurt me.

A slice of me pushes I may be slicing my stuff__something happened with me, or to me, or, in me rather, in my mind, to bring me to this point. Something had had to have happened to me, to allow me to hear them. Auditory hallucination is, well frightening enough, but if I ever actually do see them, or perhaps even worse yet, if ever they feel me and in turn I feel them–if either case ever does manifest, I really do not think I will handle it.

I really don’t. If ever must I see one of them in front of me, I will shit a brick. I will panic, I will flip, I will crumble before it. I might as well endure visits by a fucking ghost. To sum it in words: I’m getting mentally raped. I get mind-raped. They rape my mind. They really do. They rape my mind. And as of yet they’ve hijacked only one of my senses.

They’re talking right now, but I’m not sure what they’re saying, I can’t make it out. Maybe it’s just the fan. I do keep a fan. They sound like a beehive. Almost. Like a beehive. A slice of me worries I may be pushing my luck–I keep saying that. I realise that. I keep saying that. Keep saying that.



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