Flowers In A Garden

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I look at the last patch of green spots and run my fingers over them. Digging into my own skin I tear them out. Not wincing at this act is second nature now. I sew it up, patching the fresh piece of skin over it and stand back to appreciate my work in the mirror.

I am getting better at it.

But the patch comes off. The green spots I just pulled out start to multiply vigorously until there's no clear skin on my face.

I start scratching them out again, ignoring the voice at the back of my head. Ignoring the words of knowledge that I wish weren't so convincing.

But the more I scratch out, the more begin to replace the old ones, making the face look like a bed of lichens.

I have to get rid of them. This is not me. I have to find me back.

In a desperate attempt, I start scratching at my face with my gnarled, long nails. The long, dark talons cut deep, searing the skin at touch. 

I begin digging deeper, as if I was hidden somewhere deep beneath this rotten filth. But there is no me left.

Blood begins pooling out of my skin. I look at it with horror. This is not blood. This cannot be my blood.

I stare dumbstruck, as thick fluid as dark as darkness itself begins oozing out of my face. This is what flows through my veins. This darkness is what seeps through my heart.

There is no me to save. I died.  I died long ago. This is not me.

One can't deceive death. At least, not the death of the soul. Not after darkness starts owning it. Not after you felt every second of becoming who you are now. Not after becoming the very thing you have always feared. Not after becoming the demon you had sworn to kill.

Not when the rule is to become what you destroy.