John's Demon

'No, no, no, no no no,' John clutched his head, fingertips pressing into his skull. 'Don't lose control.'

'But why not?' John glared at himself, the voice in his head speaking softly and gently. 'It's only for a few moments. You can give me that much, can't you?' His jaw clenched tighter, teeth grinding against each other. The agony was written on his face, but those hazel eyes stared coldly back at him, always coldly.

And empty.

"You'll kill someone again!" He shouted at the mirror. John jerked his arm to the left and pointed violently at a wooden door. The cellar lay down dark steps, frigid and damp. "Remember last time? You took over for days and kidnapped a woman. You tortured that poor girl beyond repair and finally you ended her suffering when she couldn't please you any more. I still haven't cleaned the blood off the walls!" His eyes flicked away from himself and loitered over his piles of pizza boxes. The couch would never be clean again, the table was covered in sticky goo from who knows what, and heaven forbid he clear the walls of dirty clothing that lay piled in his room. John tore at his greasy hair-- he hadn't showered in weeks-- the sudden pounding in his head nearly sending him to the floor.

'Only for a few minutes,' his darkest side pleaded, voice unchanging in his head. Always gentle, always soft. John could never get a response out of himself. He stared at his image, eyes now threaded through with red cracks. The pounding turned to stabbing agony.

"Never!" John snarled, smashing his fist into the mirror. With a thud of protest, the glass shattered. John stared at his now-bloody fist, chest heaving from the force of his rage. His mind was clear; no pain, no pounding, sweet, sweet silence.

For a few minutes. 'Nice try,' the voice sneered, 'but I'll never leave you.'

John hardly remembered the last time he had had a few minutes of silence. He had been in high school then, a senior, and very, very close to leaving behind his terrible life. There had been people he would interact with, but always carefully, always with an informal manner.

And then there had been Cora.

Arguably the most striking girl he had ever seen, Cora had been his mind's focus, aside from schooling, when he had time to think of her. She had taken every chance to talk to him, often leaving behind her other, considerably more interesting and more trusting friends. Cora, who always sent his heart pounding and butterflies fluttering in his stomach, with her piercing-yet-kind emerald eyes that stared into his mind; she knew him better than anyone-- at least, she knew more about him.

But silence never lasted long, and John never allowed anyone to remain close to him forever. Not since he was a kid, when he pushed away his mother after losing his father to debauchery. He had had a strange rage that frightened him, and it never left.

John strode down the hallways, hurrying to his english before the bullies could come for him. There were always bullies. Clutching his books to his chest, he lengthened his stride to better cross the distance. The soft flick of auburn hair distracted him for a moment, and without warning John toppled face first onto the tile floor. 'Nice going, stupid.' The soft murmur of his conscience, or at least, he thought it was his conscience, interrupted his thoughts with vain importance.

"Are you okay John?" He glanced up to meet Cora's eyes, and his mind blanked. Her auburn hair had been what distracted him in the first place; meeting her gaze all but emptied John of the capability of speech.

"I- uh..." John scrambled to his feet, eyes unable to leave hers, even as he stood and grew to be a little less than a foot over her. 'Come on, you don't have a chance of impressing her if you can't even talk to her." The murmur in his mind came impatiently. "Y-yeah. I'm fine."