Sometimes I'm awakened in the middle of the night by the blare of a car horn, a guttural, metallic sound that tears through the darkness. Then I know they're back and the voices that inhabit my head, like parasites in a rotting brain, spit out their orders: "You know they're thirsty," they repeat, "cut your veins: let them drink as soon as they cross the wall."
Every day is Thursday, an endless repetition of a gray, rainy day. In my room, a Victorian lady watches me with empty eyes, a motionless man judges me with his silence, and a child, with a dog that seems more shadow than creature, torments me with his nightmares.
They accompany me in my bed, those specters that feed on my madness. They read the memories I write with my own blood, macabre scribbles that decorate the walls. And through the hole in the floor, I feel their gaze, the gaze of the being who directs them, a demon who delights in my suffering.
Each session is a macabre farce, a masquerade of normality. They laugh, they cry, they share stories of past lives, but they always come back to me. The child confesses that his dog, a dark, eyeless creature, forces him to play macabre games. But they are more interested in my story, my descent into madness. They study me like an insect trapped in a jar.
Today I feel something has changed. I haven't told them about my plan. Tonight is the last. A rope, cold and damp, awaits me. But when I try to tell them, they vanish, as if they had mocked me. Do they already know? Have they seen my destiny written in the stars?
I wake up startled, the rope still marking my neck. The voices return, louder than ever: "You've been hanging here for hours," they whisper. And then I understand, I'm trapped in an eternal cycle, doomed to repeat this nightmare until the end of time.
