Serpent's Suicide

Weak

So...

I finally told you about my darkest side, because I trust you, and when I start breaking down between my sentences you wanna tell me you didn't think I'd get upset about it?

You didn't think I'd get upset about being forced to watch from the corner of my mind as my own hands, my own teeth, my own body, my own SELF rips people apart like printer paper?

The worst part is the stares. She knows I can see it too. She stares into their eyes as the life leaves them. It'll never fucking leave my sight. I can't sleep anymore. I killed people in the military and I'm not proud of it, but none of that was ever even close to this, this guilt, this anguish.

I'm always going to be "upset." Don't try to tell me to calm down about it unless you know what it's like. Let me cry, let me sob until my throat is raw and my mind is fucking dead. I've been doing it almost every night since she first took over, so don't worry, I'm used to it.

God, those fucking stares. Every time I see my wife's face, or my brother's, or my best friend's, I can visualize them, their eyes fading to the same blank, infinite stare, the terror leaving them along with their soul.

I don't know what she wants, but I'd do goddamn anything to make it stop except take another life. I can't handle another night of going to sleep, already scared out of my mind as the demons hover around me like sharks. Only to be jerked awake as she rolls out of bed, with full intent to kill whoever is unlucky enough.

I just want to scream, begging her to take my life first before any of theirs. I'd endure a thousand years of her torture if it saved everyone else from the usual ten minutes or so. But I can't do anything except think "Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop." Over and over again and hope with futility that I'll convince her.

The only time that ever works is if she thinks about hurting Brite. The first time she looked over at my wife when she sat up in bed, in my own body... I regained control within seconds. It was so much easier. I think I just love her too  fucking much, and that's the only part of me stronger than serpent.

I hate that word, though. "Strong?" I'm not fucking strong. I'm weaker than anything. When she's alone in the bathroom with me, the body she digs her razors into is mine. The blood that smears across the skin is mine. The tears running down my cheeks are mine. But the corrupted eye, the insignia frozen into my face, those are not mine. I don't know where they go when she gives up control but they're never there without her.

I can't even see the fear in my own real eye. The wet, flushed cheeks are the only sign that I can even feel it. But I can, just as well as anything else. She slices me so softly, creating such small cuts. Hundreds of them, up and down my arms and even on my neck and hands. Sometimes it's on my lips or the tips of my fingers. I always watch as my blood flows so  fucking quickly. I don't have a choice.

The first few times I panicked, thinking I was gonna die. But now I know I won't, as much as I wish I would. Maybe then I could escape the searing, dull pain that wraps around me. She doesn't make a fucking sound, she doesn't flinch. She leaves the suffering to me, with no coping mechanism. She can't say anything out loud or she'll wake up Brite in the next room, but she always glances into the mirror to give myself a full view of the shitshow she's made of me.

She's trying to say, "Look at you. You're so filthy. Look how easy it was to make a mess with just a little razor. Why are you so weak? You can't fight me in the slightest, as long as I never go for that wife of yours. You're fucking disgusting. Just a depressed little human, so easy to kill. And you're trapped with me."

And she's right. I'm disgusting. The sight of my blood is unbearable. It's the very essence of me but I fucking hate it. I hate that it runs in my veins. I hate that I can't survive without it.

In the black darkness of the midnight bathroom, it looks black, too. It's impure. Unclean. I'm almost glad she wants to rid me of it. Maybe one night she'll dig the blade a bit deeper, carve gashes a little bit bigger, rip me open a little bit more.

But she fucking won't, will she? She wants me to do it myself. She won't be the one to pull the trigger when the gun is at my temple. She won't be the one to slash with all her strength when the tip of the knife is at my wrists or my neck. She won't be the one to step over the side of the building when I'm inches away from the edge and hundreds of feet from the ground. She won't be the one to kill me. But then, neither will I.

Maybe.

We'll see.

It doesn't matter to me if she wants to torture me. I can handle it, I guess. I have been for weeks now, I suppose it won't kill me for a while longer. Not that she's ever going to fucking stop. But if I imagine that she will one day, it makes it all bearable.

What really matters to me is that she wants to torture others. Probably the worst one was Arctic Assassin. That night was when I learned that if I'm not limited by morality, then I'm not limited by strength. I honestly didn't expect my own arms to be able to drive a knife straight through a fucking human skull. But the way it plunged through her head won't ever leave my mind.

She plays with her victims like fucking toys. She cuts, burns, stabs random places, just to see what kind of reaction it'll get. Usually a scream of agony, or pleading for mercy.

And you'd think these would be burned into my mind, replaying infinitely if I'm not heavily distracting myself. But instead it's the silent sobs, the resigned sighs of people who can't find the energy or the will to scream and who know they're going to die anyways. The soft sounds Luna made as the tears flowed down her cheeks and the blood flowed down her chest and neck, those sounds are the ones that won't ever fucking go away.

They'll never go away. And she won't, either. But I tell myself that they might, that she might. Because when I was a little girl, and I told myself the scary shadows in the corner of the room would go away, they did. When the morning came and the dawn shone through my window, I couldn't see the shadows anymore. I could just see the corner of my room, where my dresser was.

Maybe, one day the morning will come, and she'll go away too. And when the dawn shines through my window, I won't look into the mirror and see her hiding beneath the surface anymore. I'll just see myself. My broken, sobbing, desperate, weak, fucking impure self.

But I don't think that will ever happen.

I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm a monster's vessel.