There it is, in the corner of my eye. Or peeking around a nearby corner.

Either the shadows are alive or my madness has caught me, finally.

Over my shoulder I feel the monster, its breath on my skin, the heavy weight of its hands around my neck, suffocating me in my own paranoia.

Some days I wonder if its the fear or my mind breaking ever so slowly, melting each day within the poison known as my synapses. Am I imagining things because I am fearful, or fearful because I am imagining things?

I don't tell many a person about this. The mood disorder, they can handle. But seeing things? Oh, that tends to be a tipping point for most people. Even myself. I like to pretend I see nothing so that I don't have to admit maybe I'm worse off than I think.

I see you there, lurking in my peripheral vision, trying to **** me. But when I look I see my face, smiling that maniacal grin and showing off those sharp teeth, not my teeth, and all the blood, so much blood, my blood.

Suddenly my surroundings are uncomfortable, so prickling with my own horrific imaginings that they almost feel all too real.

Funny how my mind pictures all these terrifying creatures, all these monsters from beyond the grave, while the real monster was hiding all along in my mirror.

The monster, the shadow, is me.