I can’t remember a time where there wasn’t a voice in my head. It was just always there; telling me it’s opinions and giving me advice. And, of course, I always listened to it. The voice in my head never led me astray. It wasn’t until middle school when the voice became more demanding. It wanted me to listen or else. I never knew what the or else would be because I just did what the voice inside my head told me to and that was the end of it. There were no limits to its demands either. They started off small with tiny orders that didn’t cause any issues day-to-day with my friends or family. But then they got more aggressive, became more frequent, and became more violent.
“Take that pencil and stab her in the eye. Do it.”
“You should get a knife from the kitchen and slit their throat. Do it.”
“Those bullies weren’t very nice. Why don’t you push her down the staircase tomorrow at school? Do it.”
And I did.
I obeyed because the voice in my head is my friend. I felt really guilty, of course, because I thought these orders were bad. But the guilt wore off after a few years and I started to look forward to the voice giving me another activity. I looked forward to what weapon would be requested and what victim would be chosen. It was exciting.
By the time I was starting to enjoy carrying out the orders, I was in and out of juvenile detention and regularly handcuffed by police. They knew me by name and everyone in the justice system seemed to want me behind bars to rot.
I was lucky my family – or what was left of it – had money. I was still the angel of my mother’s eye, so any time I was in trouble and it seemed like this was it for me, she would step in with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of the best lawyers to break me out and bring me back home. I think this is why the voice in my head never told me to hurt her.
But mom is gone now, the money ran out, and the police are at my door ready to finally subject me to life in prison. They really didn’t like the slaughter I accomplished down at the mall where I shot bullet after bullet into every single person my eyes caught – just like the voice told me to. The voice also knew that this might be our last hurrah, of sorts, so it ordered me to save a bullet for later.
And I did.
It wasn’t the final order that the voice in my head would demand, though. There was one more left to go. There’s no one left to keep me safe anymore. It’s just me and the voice in my head, held up in the attic of my house, with a single bullet left in my gun. I was waiting for the voice. And, as the front door of my house busted open with police arms and ready to fire, a smile graced my face when the voice gave me it’s final demand:
“Put the gun to your temple and shoot. Do it.”