One day, the voice took total control. It became the puppeteer of the show of the century. I came home from school as per usual to see my mom washing the dishes and turning around to greet me, "Oh honey, welcome home. How was school? Anything exciting happen?" my mother asked me with optimism smeared on her face, oh how I've grown to despise that look. I didn't reply to her as I often didn't so she turned around proceeded to wash the gold rimmed China. Swiftly, I grabbed a nearby knife from the counter and proceeded to stab her in the back 23 times, which was equivalent to her birthday, the 23rd of January, I thought she would've appreciated that. She fell to the ground with her eyes wide open. Was she unable to interpret what was going on, or did the pain blind her like it did to me all these years? I hate to break it you mom, but it's not really a phase. I felt the adrenaline stimulating my brain. My blood, fiercely pumping through my veins. The rush was indescribable. I then proceeded to head upstairs laughing passionately to the remarks the voice was telling. I found him peacefully asleep on his bed, if only he knew that his slumber would last an eternity. I held tightly to the knife, adjusting my grip. "I hate to break it to you dad, but it's not a phase." stabbed him as he jolted awake with agony. I continued to do so until the voice was satisfied. The voice told me to head to the dense and gloomy woods. I kept running trying to forget what happened, but the voice still followed me with all its torment.
