It begs for a resource it is not allowed. You can feel it twisting, turning inside of you like a voracious beast, one you thought you had conquered long ago, arisen from the dead.

“It’s your own fault,” someone whispers to you. You are alone in your room.

You turn on the lights to feel less alone, your only company the voiceless dancing entity within the small bulb. A presence not really there, yet comforting nonetheless.

“Why did you do that?” something else will ask. Something deep within the boundaries of your mind, though it is not you. It’s not you, yet it becomes a part of you more and more each day, growing like a malignancy, a wronged adversary with a penchant for revenge.

It haunts you, clings to your bowels, takes your guts in its hands, and squeezes. It permeates though the entirety of your body—it seeps into your blood, it infects your brain. Simultaneously. It’s everywhere. It’s nowhere.

Is it really just you?

It can’t be. It can’t be you, because that line of reasoning doesn’t make sense. Why would you do this? Why would you do this to yourself? Later, they’ll ask you the same thing. There is no answer you can give them that will satiate their curiosity.

You don’t even know yourself.