Peroxide (Peterick)

lindsey ballato is my mother

The voices have gone away.

I don't know how, but the stagnant blight of Etep is but a memory, passing with an odd expression and a pang of fear before it's devoured by the sink, and I don't know whether I should run for my life or stick around out of curiosity.

I'm convinced that both would entail my defeat, but with the state of things, it appears as though Etep is the one to be defeated.

Now that Dallon has shown up, inflicting a fervid sort of rage upon my normally docile composure, Etep is sidetracked by attempting to eliminate the new contender, and he hasn't done a very good job of it.

He's just disappeared completely, not even capable of trying his best, and my steadiness is gradually increasing with each minute he's absent.

I'm confident in saying, however, that he'll be back, and he'll sure as hell be angry with me for betraying him, as if regaining access to my own mind is some kind of treachery that he simply can't stand and will have punished by execution.

But then where would he live if I'm decapitated? With me, abruptly shoved into the ground with a scarcity of dirt piled atop my chilled body and my dismembered head tucked gently under my arm as if a basketball.

Because Etep has made it quite conspicuous that he never leaves, so with this knowledge, it's fair to say that he's only dormant, refueling himself before he strikes with twice the blow to my sanity, but it's not like I can be bothered to be responsive towards it, because he's been smiting me since the dawn of my post-traumatic stress disorder diagnostic meeting after the event, where things were only heating up, and if he has the audacity to declare his superiority over me on our first encounter, there's no doubt that he'll observe the Napoleon complex further, tearing my grasp on life to smithereens with the lack of artwork to glamorize them.

The real artwork, I come to understand, is not the scraps of destruction, because I've professed my hatred for that mentality many times before, rather the idea that Etep is a metaphor for Dallon, and as I brood on that, it becomes more and more legitimate, until it emerges with a blinding glory as the only absoluteness.

Too often are we raveled in affairs we don't understand, but they seem charming enough for discussion, so we give them a go, and that was me for two years, but now I've finally understood why this shit is spinning around me.

There can never be a cessation for pleasure. It's always either Etep or Dallon, mental or physical, and there's no judging which one is worse, because I've been abused by both, and people just write it off as either a symptom or an attacker who was never jailed because my case is somehow superficial to their biased jury ruling.

And because of that negligence, I've ceased my uproar for a friendlier stance whose only purpose is to promote my likeability as I cluck at how poorly it's working, because I'm still defiant, and I'm still irritable, and I'm still the mess that I've always been, but at least a lick of pessimism has been composted — or that's only what the psychologists enjoy, in which case bedeviling them is the least of my chores.

My mother instructs otherwise, but she's no use as well, seeing as she aims to send me to a mental hospital, and it's not so much the environment of it but the stigma associated with the place, because not everyone is aware that receiving help is okay, that it's taking care of yourself, and a mental institution only represents a madhouse for serial killers that must be shunned from society, and it's a tragic ideology.

There's no evidence to claim that I wouldn't fit in with the people there, though, but with the departure of Etep, things are looking up for my health.