Poems of a dear friend

"The Whispers"

First, it was a song.
I was confused, hearing something with no substance.
This pleasing melody, however, was no cause for alarm.
It calmed me, it allowed me to shut out the world.
Shutting out the pain I endured.
Shutting out what humanity I had left.

Then, it became a whisper.
At this point, I knew I was crazy.
But it told me there was nothing to fear.
So I sat, and listened,
And learned the depraved secrets of my existence.

I had a flash of sanity.
I thought I could outwit my own mind.
But it's hard to plot when your opponent is listening in.
The flash of sanity was followed by a scream.
My own scream, from the excruciating pain radiating out of my body.
And then, the whispered voice made a deal with me.
I would do what it told me to, or I would live in my own personal hell.

The voice inside demanded bloodshed.
An ultimatum, backed with eternal punishment.
I had no choice but to obey.

The first victim was strangled to death.
It seemed incorrect to say that this was by my own hand,
Because that day has only shown that my body is no longer mine.
These hands are not my hands.
They look familiar, but their actions are foreign.

As I look out the window, ten corpses litter the street.
Bludgeoned, savaged by someone I no longer call myself.

On the floor lies another.
Her skin, pale.
Her throat, slit.
Her body, lifeless.
A disturbing sight,
Perhaps even more disturbing is that I am left unfazed.

The whisper, ever vigilant, taunts me with its manipulation.
"This is number 647," I hear in my head.

But today, the whisper will be silenced.

The next corpse to lie on this floor will be my own.

Truly, my own.