Psychotic Life

I looked at my reflection in the mirror hanging on the white wall. I could feel the presence of her watching me, guarding me with her darken and sadistic heart. I gazed at my own face, feeling sick of everything she told me to do, as if I was not the owner of my own actions anymore. She existed when I had no control of remembering her presence. She appeared when I had no solution to my own madness. She seemed to be taking over me, I wished I can deny every word she said, but because of my weakness, I did not have the gut to kick off every shattered hopes she poured into my minds.

“You are a beast, Suraya,” she whispered.

I remembered listening to the thunder outside the dark room, with a knife on my left hands, blood streaming down from my own hands. One thing I was sure about that day. I was not feeling the pain, which seemed to come from my own bleeding hands. I felt the victory; I felt the success whenever I saw the damned knife. A knife fully covered in rusty blood which I kept until now, hidden somewhere I couldn’t tell.

“You are a beast, a mad and cruel beast. Suraya, you are more than what you think,” she whispered again, like chanting a witch’s ritual rants, to my ear.

She is my other half, my unconscious misery I had implanted inside my mind. I knew she is not real, but my head is messing with me. She appeared when I am in deep trouble, a trouble I wish I didn’t do. I heard she called herself Sofea, with the bloodshot eyes and weary heart, she called herself Sofea Iskandar. Somewhere inside my mind told me that she is real, even though I knew she isn’t.

“Go away, Sofea. Stop messing with my mind.”

“No, I can’t leave you.”

“Why can’t you, Sofea?”

“Cause I am what you are now, a beast.”

That was the only conversation I remembered.