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a letter to my sanity

dear friend.


Hello. I would tell you my name, but I don't have one. I've used too many names; I don't know which one I can call mine anymore. But name is not the only thing that defines a person. There is also their soul.

I have a demon living inside my head. I don't know how it got there, I don't know if it will ever go away. All I know is that it makes me do things. I'm quiet and not very noticeable, but nice all the same. My normal self is kind of a wallflower. I don't mind it. I don't want too much attention, and I enjoy living in the silence. But sometimes it takes over, and I don't know how to stop it.

First I laugh. It’s not like I never laugh, but this is different. I feel as if I just saw the funniest thing in the world, and I just can't stop laughing, even if I want to. I don't even know what I'm laughing at. The first time it happened, it was scary. And it still is. Before, I was scared because I didn't know what was happening. Now, I'm scared because I know what's going to happen. And I don't want it to. Sometimes people see me when it happens, and I can see by their faces that I scare them. That my uncontrollable laughter somehow makes them feel terrified, even though I'm not doing anything to them directly. Not yet.

Cause then after the laughter stops, I don’t have control of myself anymore. I once saw myself in the mirror when this happened, and I remember seeing my eyes. Or the lack of eyes, that is. I had eyes, but only colors. You know how you have the iris and then the pupil inside? I don’t have pupils. It’s scarier than it sounds.

When I lose control, that’s when the demon takes it. The demon likes blood. It makes me violent. It usually makes me get a weapon first, but sometimes it uses my hands. The people that see me laugh; I don’t know how they feel because they told me. I look at them, but they can’t tell me. Cause they’re the first ones to die.

I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be a killer. But the demon makes me do it. I have no control over my body when the demon rips apart its victim’s body, cutting and tearing every bone and muscle until the poor innocent person is a mass of bloody flesh. Then the blood. The demon likes blood. The demon takes the spilled blood in my hands and pours it down my throat. I know blood tastes bad, when sometimes I get a cut in my mouth and I can taste it. But the demon makes it taste good. Salty, like metal, but so much better. The demon likes when I’m covered with blood, inside and out. Once, this all happened in front of a mirror in one of those ballet studios. When I looked up, the blood on my face and hands scared the life out of me. The demon isn't scared, though. The demon doesn’t do anything but smile.

Smile. That’s all it does. Even when I don’t want to, the demon makes me smile. It smiles when it raises the knife. It smiles when the victim screams and tries to run. It smiles when the knife goes through their heart. It smiles when the bloody remains are spilled. It smiles when the blood goes down my throat, when it cakes my skin and clothes. The demon makes my soul watch while it uses my body for its dirty work. My eyes would watch in horror while my hands tear away at flesh. And my brain can’t do anything about it, because the demon is the only one in control.

Sometimes it isn’t satisfied with just one person. Sometimes it makes me sneak around in the shadows, pouncing on the very next lonely person it sees. And makes me do it again. All over again. Once, I remember that the demon made me do it six times in one night. Six murders by itself would be bad. But over the years, the number has well exceeded fifty. Fifty deaths that I will have to answer for in heaven. Or maybe to the jury, before I even get a chance at an afterlife.

so you have to help me. Help me get rid of this demon. there has to be a way to make it leave me alone. I’ve already considered an exorcism. I know that sometimes they help get rid of a demon, but I don’t think one will work for me. Because I don’t think that my demon is one that is inhabiting my body. it’s one that it permanently living in my soul. I’ve read about people with those mental diseases, the ones that they put into asylums and run tests on. I think I have one of those diseases, but I don’t dare tell anyone because they will throw me into one of those. I don’t want to go there. The demon doesn’t want to go there.

The only reason that I can tell you this is because you don’t know who I am. You are just that lucky person who will pick up this letter from the ground once I let it go into the world. Maybe, you can help me. And maybe, you will help me. And maybe the demon will drink your blood before you can get rid of it.

I think that the demon is not something that has gotten into me. After thinking for much too long, I have come to the conclusion that the demon is a part of me. As much as a part of me as my own self. it’s a disease that can’t be healed. Like one of those people in the asylums that have to be killed because they’re too dangerous.

So that’s what I think I’m going to do. My own life is nothing compared to the fifty I have taken. If I’m gone, no more people will die because of my demon. It will be as if their deaths were avenged, but avenged by my own self.

if I can’t get rid of the demon soon, I will have no choice but to kill it. by killing myself. Chances are, by the time you read this, I’ll already be dead. So don’t even waste your time looking for me. You wouldn’t be able to find me, anyway. I have no name. no identity.

Who knows, maybe the darkness of death is better than the fear of the demon. Don’t let it catch you.


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