guts, a festering display

Have I ever told you about her? Oh, y'know, her. I'm not gonna name any names cause my momma taught me it's rude to. She's rude too.

I met her when I first started school, as an adorable four-year-old (no, really, adorable with a capital A). She snuck up on me, caught me unawares, and jumped on for a piggy-back ride.

A speedy tumble and a mocking laugh. She planned to stay, or so my spidey sense told me.

And boy, did she stay. She wanted what I had, you see. Greedy.

Grew like a weed, her. Or maybe parasite would be more fitting, seeing as she did delight in my misery.

But most children aren't particularly miserable. Turns out, that can be amended efficiently, should one spare the energy.

She knew I'd never tell anyone about the things she did. She left bruises in places it'd be impolite to bare. And my momma taught me never to be rude.

No matter how vigilant I was, or how well-prepared, she could slip through my defenses and jab right where it hurt; which wasn't that tough, seeing as everything hurt at this point.

I could neither best her, nor rid myself of her. Much to my disgust, I couldn't call for help either. I didn't even try to; it was far too humiliating to admit that I had been weak for so long.

A child no more; now, a miserable teen.

Fortunately, most teens are pretty miserable so I fit right in.

That's when I met him. A friend of hers, which should have warned me but she covered my eyes and let me play blind.

Maybe he's stuck with her, the same as me.

We're the same, said I to me.

I thought I was happy.

He made me feel powerful. People listened at the slightest hint of his name, and listened well.

They jumped out of the way when I walked into a room with him at my heels.

He told my momma that I hated her. I was rude.

I delighted in their misery. He fed off my delight. It wasn't perfect, I knew that.

But if she had taught me anything, it was that I wasn't perfect. I knew that.

He'd appear in an instant when she made goings rough. And distract, for one can't vanquish emotions.

I loved him. No, rather, I loved his influence.

Till it wasn't enough anymore.

It was exhilarating, sure. But I didn't want to go on a joyride, tripping on my own words, tripping to different worlds.

Sometimes, I wanted to curl up in my blanket and let that be enough.

He thought that blankets were only good if you could hang another with them.

I'm not about that life, so I smothered him with one.

Rolled him up all nice and snug and stuffed him in the closet. Took a fair amount of space too, that selfish bastard.

I can hear him taunting me in the nighttime. He's alive and kicking, furiously.

It'd be a felony but there's enough of him to go around. Unfortunately.

Regardless.

I had finally done it. I had fixed what was broken, sealed the leak and bound the corset all nice and tight.

I was happy. I thought.

Except she stuck around, didn't she. She said she'd always stay right by my side, like some faithful lover teetering on obsessive insanity.

She had to go.

I had done it once, surely it'd be easier the second time around. I'd always been good at picking up new skills too.

The sun shone brightly that day. Well, it didn't really, I'm just trying to justify my actions through positive imagery.

She pounced on me, as I knew she would.

I embraced her.

Flustered by such a contrary act, she let go.

But I didn't.

Wrapping the garrote around the throat that spewed nothing but hateful venom was incredibly delicious.

Hey, you wouldn't want me to lie to you, would you now?

I stuffed her underneath the floorboards.

She might be immortal but we'll see how much she likes immortality once the rats get to her.

But evil has its ways; on days she wants to remind me of my place, she rots with renewed vigor.

The dead corpse stink always gives me away; what's wrong, you ask? Oh nothing, the women underneath my floorboards wants you to know that I'm insecure and envious, that's all.

That's all, I say.

In the relative quiet left after burying the two out of sight, I realised it never was a trio.

One for all and all four, one.

The fourth is a shadow, I can't tell of what.

It blurs and obscures, I can't see.

It weighs me down, I can't move.

It's comfortable poison, I can't help breathing it in.

I want to leave It far behind, but It simply is.

Sometimes, I fear that It's all I am.

Sometimes, I fear that It's all I want to be.

For when I cry, It lets me cry with never a single reproach. No, those are foisted upon me by the other two.

It adds depth to character, they say. It makes you stronger, they say.

I wanna stuff It where the sun don't shine but a primal survival instinct won't let me kill the last of what makes me human.

Bothersome, this survival gimmick.

Bothersome, It.

And so we live, in a room that smells like someone strung up my most human emotions to rot in the humidity.

Oh wait.

I did.