It's Not My Fault

I am nothing. I lay here, a withering hollow shell of something that was once a woman, my cheek pressed against the cold stone of the floor. My eyes travel to the walls, taking in the blankness and lifeless color they display. I feel the dirt entering my nose as I breathe; coating my nasal cavities with dust and heaven knows what else.

Everything hurts: my neck, from being twisted at an awkward angle. My arms throb, to say nothing of my wrists and ankles, from being wrenched back and bound with ropes. My head aches from when they knocked me out when they first dragged me into this hellhole. My back stings from the lashes when I wouldn’t say why I did what I did. It wasn’t my fault; the experience was still so unreal, as if someone took a hot iron and branded the memory into my brain.

I am so desperate for the sweet solace of sleep, but every time I close my eyes I see the same images: smiling faces, a girl holding a red balloon, lanterns lighting the streets. It only gets worse from there: a young woman whose blonde hair turned red from all the blood, a tall man staring at me in horror; my ears filling with the sounds of screams.

But like I said earlier, it’s not my fault. The funny thing is, these aren’t my memories. Oh no, most certainly not – they’re Hers. She is my nemesis, my worst nightmare, all of my fears turned into a being with flesh and bone. She doesn’t have a name, at least not a name that I know of. She is a part of me as real as my brain, eyes or heart.

I’m not entirely sure when She first came around; my empty and horrendous childhood could be to blame. It very well could be that She came around to comfort me while I spent so many nights crying myself to sleep, wishing I had parents who loved me and treated me like I existed.

At first She was a comfort, a friend – finally, someone that would sympathize with me and be there for me! I would sit with her for hours in my mind’s eye, telling her all my woes and troubles. She was always patient, always willing to lend a listening ear. She became my best friend, until 24 hours ago.

Before I went to the festival at my local town, I was once more moaning and groaning about how I longed to be noticed, about how, since I was my parent’s only daughter, I should be spoiled and treated like a princess, not a prisoner. I mentioned how much I hated them, and how much I wish they were dead. At that, She grinned wickedly and said, “Well, why not just kill them and make your wish come true?”

I was so mortified at the thought; as much as I detested my parents I could never kill anyone! If my fellow siblings taught me anything, it was to value all life. I told Her so, and She laughed at me and called me a coward. I sent her away. That is my biggest regret.

I went to the festival (even I was allowed to go at the consent of my parents) and was having an alright time until I bumped into a man and fell hard on the ground. He sneered at me and said, “Watch where you’re going, little girl!” Immediately, all the hate and rage I had felt about my parents swamped me. The next thing I knew, I was staring at a massacre, a sword from a display table in my hand. My white dress was red.

My first thought was, what have I done? But then I realized, I didn’t do it – I would never do something like this willingly! Only in self defense would I ever do such a horrible deed. I knew immediately it was Her. While I was swallowed up in those intense feelings of hatred, I had involuntarily let Her invade my body. She had done this, not me.

So you see? It’s not my fault. The demon inside me did this. But even before I was captured I knew no one would believe me, so I ran. My capturers followed the trail of blood that was dripping from my dress and found me. They demanded to know what I had done, but I was in such a shock that I could not speak. All I could see was the faces of the dead, their glassy eyes forever unblinking. They did everything to try to get me to speak: they lashed me, threatened me, they did nearly every trick in the book. They seem to think I am mute. This frustrates them greatly.

And now, here I am, with my wrists bound and my head throbbing. During interrogation She took over and killed one of the officers. That’s when they knew it was me. But you see, it wasn’t me – if you look into my eyes, that’s where my demon hides. You may ask, am I going to tell them all I just told you? Absolutely. Will they believe me? Never. Demons are unheard of in this day and age. They will never believe me when I say it’s not my fault.

It’s not my fault. I wish I could die.