Blame my Shadow

The Voice that Stayed

I stand up slowly, my heart beginning to race. "You're not real."

The voice laughs.

Not cruelly. Not maniacally.

Almost fondly.

"I'm the only thing that's ever been real."

I grab my jacket from the chair. My fingers tremble, but I force them to work. "You're just... a symptom. A coping mechanism. Trauma."

"That's a boring word for devotion," the voice replies.

I freeze.

Devotion.

"What are you talking about?" I whisper.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Then the voice returns, lower now, heavier.

"You felt it, didn't you?"

My throat goes dry.

"The control. The clarity. The quiet after."

Images flash through my mind—moments I've tried not to examine too closely. The stillness after a kill. The strange calm. The way the noise in my head would finally stop.

I swallow hard. "That doesn't mean—"

"It means everything."

My hands clench into fists. "They were people."

"They were sinners."

The word lands with unnatural weight.

"Sinners?" I echo, incredulous.

"Children who grew up rotten. Broken. Marked."
"The orphanage wasn't an accident."
"It was a harvest."

My breathing becomes shallow. "No. No, that's not—"

"You think Satan doesn't exist because you've never seen him?" the voice murmurs. "You've been seeing him your whole life."

A chill creeps down my spine.

"Blood feeds him," the voice continues. "Pain sanctifies him. And you—"

It pauses.

"—you were chosen."

My head starts to spin. "Stop."

"You felt it every time."
"The release."
"The purpose."

I stagger back, pressing my palm against the wall.

"They didn't deserve to die," I say weakly.

"They were destined to."

The certainty in the voice terrifies me more than the words themselves.

"The children who survived the orphanage were never meant to."
"Loose ends."
"Witnesses."
"Corruption that needed cleansing."

My chest hurts. My ribs feel too tight around my lungs.

"And Sarah?" I ask quietly.

The voice goes cold.

"She disobeyed."

My vision blurs.

"She loved me."

"She interfered."

"She was trying to help."

"She was trying to stop him."

My knees buckle and I sink onto the bed.

"You're saying..." My voice breaks. "You're saying I had to kill her."

The voice doesn't hesitate.

"Anyone who disobeys Satan dies."

My stomach twists violently.

"Painfully."

I squeeze my eyes shut, tears leaking out despite my efforts. "I didn't want to hurt her."

"And yet you did."

I let out a broken sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"I loved her."

The voice softens again, almost soothing.

"Love is irrelevant."
"Obedience is everything."

Silence falls again.

I sit there for a long time, staring at the floor, my mind replaying moments with Sarah. Her touch. Her concern. Her fear. The way she looked at me like she was trying to reach something buried deep inside.

"She deserved better," I whisper.

The voice doesn't argue.

It doesn't need to.

Eventually, I stand up again. I don't put the jacket on. I set it back down on the chair.

The idea of the police feels distant now. Unreal. Small.

I walk to the window and look outside. The world looks unchanged. People are walking. Cars are passing. Life is continuing, blissfully unaware of the truth sitting in this room.

I feel... empty.

And then, beneath that emptiness, something else.

A familiar stillness.

A quiet I haven't felt in days.

The voice hums softly, satisfied.

"You don't need forgiveness."
"You don't need redemption."
"You need purpose."

I close my eyes.

Sarah's face flickers behind them.

"I miss you," I murmur.

For a moment, grief presses down on me so hard I almost break again.

But the voice is there, steady, anchoring.

"Grief fades."
"Duty doesn't."

I inhale slowly.

Then exhale.

When I open my eyes, the house feels different. Not quieter. Not louder.

Aligned.

I tell myself the same thing again and again until it settles into something solid.

They deserved it.
I was chosen.
This is bigger than me.

And somewhere deep inside, a part of me knows that if I had walked into that police station today—

I would've been betraying something far worse than the law.