The Narrative of the Cooing Voice

I woke this morning feeling like I haven't actually been awake for a long time.
When I looked into the mirror, I couldn't recognize my reflection, nor recall anything about myself. The only reason I know my name's Mara is that it's the name tattooed along my pinkie.
What the hell?
And there's this voice in my head that isn't my conscience, trying to tell me what to do and how to act. The worse part: I want to submit to its commands in spite of the growing suspicion that, if I do, I'll be made a puppet.