But the sounds come in. Winding through my spinal column upwards to my temples, and I am caught. The clinging net has been cast. It smothers me, even though it is as light as webbing.
The thoughts racing round, spinning and whirling like a chipped ballerina in an old music box. Tinny and muted, sickly and unkind.
When you're born bad, how do you pull the darkness out? I'm kicking out the legs of the stool, one by one. I'm dangling, fighting. FIGHTING to be good. Battling to not use all of my words to fight.
This creature, this consciousness, this fountain of cyclical and trembling terror is what I am. But I fight. And I will fight myself. I will win. Or I will suffocate.
No-one can touch me, truly. Hate me. I hate myself harder. Push me. I push myself closer to the precipice. Pull me. I'll cartwheel into oblivion, laughing all the way.
See me. I'll see you. I will turn, to at least see you. I want nothing from you. Just to look. And everyone wants to be seen, if even just once.
Before I hop the banister of madness, and slide all the way down with shrieking mirthful howling.
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