No Place Like Paradise
Sometimes I imagine myself drowning, my body sinking under the weight of a thousand hands pushing me down. My throat tightens, and my chest get heavy.
Images of their bodies dissected on the floor with a large pool plague my mind. My thoughts are no longer mine, but a slideshow of all my sins.
I feel myself losing touch with my body. Like I’m astral projecting. My whole body feels light. Then, suddenly I’m sucked back into my body.
After I get used to the sensation, I use all my strength to lift myself off the bed and trudge to the bathroom.
It gets easier to deal with the pressure the longer I live. But the ironic thing is that the longer I exist is dependant on my ability to continue sinning.
I wonder if God hates me. According to my parents and the Bible, I’m a sinner worthy of Hell. My heart lurches with the thought of burning forever, living in an eternal inferno.
For the first time in a while, it’s only my reflection staring back at me. My eyes dart around my bathroom. I ignore the crimson-stained walls, and search for anyone. Instead, my eyes get stuck on a dismembered hand on the floor.
I hear a whispering voice at the back of my head.
It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my-
A sharp bolt of pain shoots through my head, causing me to buckle to the ground. My hands meet the cold, hard floor. I close my eyes quickly, as if to shut out the pain. Suddenly, the voices change their tune.
Monster. You’re a monster. You deserve to die.
They continue to shout. I feel their voices reverberate in my skull until they fade into the air. I wait for them to die down completely.
From the corner of the mirror I see a hint of movement from one of the bodies splayed on the carpet. For a second, their finger twitches.
I amble cautiously towards the person. They don’t notice me advancing towards them. The person tries to pull themselves up, while there’s an expression of pure fear on their face.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, holding a knife over their head. But it’s not my fault; my demons tell me so.
