more reason ·
17 October 04

I’m finding this difficult to write. I think there is something wrong with me. My arms feel weighed down. It’s as if, in my head, or something stopping me, slowing me down to write. My head is splitting, I feel ill, sick, to the point of puking.

I feel like a voice in my head, that I am struggling to say what I need or to be heard. There’s something around my neck, and it’s suffocating me. The pain is greater under the lower part of my face, above the neck line to my right. My hands are typing, I think, but then what’s strangling me? I don’t understand.

When i closed my eyes, I saw a looping death. I saw images that horrified me, things I don’t want repeat, images I don’t want to remember. My throat is choked dry, the pain is growing, but am I typing? Are there actually two hands on the keyboard? For a moment, I thought my hands were around my throat, but I’m not sure anymore. If they’re not my hands, then who’s are they?

There’s a taste of blood in my mouth. The metallic, bitter taste of blood. When I opened my eyes, I didn’t recognise anything. I sat in my chair, my hands clasped, staring into nothing, and the voice screaming at me, “Shattered?” it bellows repeatedly. “Shattered? I’ll show you FUCKING SHATTERED”. It’s stronger than me, the voice, its presence. I sort of recognise him, but his voice is distorted. I couldn’t move as I stared, water welled up in my eyes, as I felt an electrical shake in my body. Nothing seemed familiar; forcing myself to acknowledge, “This is my room. That is my book. These are my hands. This is my body. I really am here”.

They are my hands, this is my body, my room, my books. But, I think they are, or believe they are, and they don’t seem real, or familiar. I look at my hand, and question if this is real. Is this my heart beating? Then why is there so much pain? My veins rise in my hands, like road maps to my death, “Turn here for torture, take a right for quick death”.

It’s stronger than me, the voice, its presence. I sort of recognise him, but his voice is distorted. I couldn’t move as I stared, water welled up in my eyes, as I felt an electrical shake in my body.

I understand I have to be doing something. I don’t really want to kill anyone, I mean I do want to, but I know it’s wrong and I shouldn’t. If I’m dead, then I won’t want to kill, because I’ll stop, and then I can’t kill anyone, which is a good thing.

If I got sleep, then I might be normal again. I hope so. I want to be that again, before this, because I don’t like this. I don’t know where he’s going, and what’ he’s going to do. I don’t like this, because it’s too frightening, the thoughts, the feelings, they’re making me sick. I shouldn’t think like that.

Then I looked up, and I saw something, I don’t know if it was a face. Or did I imagine it. I said, “I need help”, but the face just stared at me. So I said, “Please help. I’ll be good” but the face just stared back and said nothing. Then the face turned away, and my throat tightens, and dries up again, and I feel that cold again, and now my neck begins to stiffen and the pain in my neck returns, and I feel faint, weaker, drained. Dead.

Is that my spirit, or did it just wonder in? Maybe if I talk to it, it will help me.

Can you see your own ghost?