I hate this. The pain.

I love it. The pain.

The red lines on my wrists, the sweet breaking of my heart, the gentle smell of a slow death.

Awful, wonderful things.

They swirl in my head, a never-ending cacophony of sorrow.

I hate the way I feel all the time, I hate the tiredness, hunger, sadness, anger, pain.

But how would I live without it?

Maybe I've always been this way.

no. There was a time, years ago, when I was innocent, happy even. I would frolic in the sun, I would live, I would love.

I'm not sure how it ended. Maybe it was a subtle crescendo building to a sad climax. Maybe it was the fall off a cliff, too sudden for anyone to note.

I didn't feel like this before.

Maybe it was the first time I yelled at them. 

Maybe it was the first time I lied to them.

Maybe it was the first time I fought them.

Or maybe it was the first time I wanted to.

They never tell you exactly what caused the villain. 

They never show the pain, the struggle.

You get a portion sometimes, but it's so much worse than what you see.

You see the betrayal, the tears. You see the secrets, the broken hearts.

But seeing isn't feeling.

You never feel what the bad guy goes through until you are the bad guy.

Until every second hurts, and it just makes you fall.

Until you hurt everyone you've ever loved.

Until you started down the road of no return.

You don't feel the pain at first. Every action is justified in your twisted mind.

You hurt him because he hurt you.

He did this to himself. He's the one to blame for this.

I'm doing this for the good of everyone, you think, as you burn those who loved you.

I'm doing this to fix things, you think, as you break them.

It would all be better if they'd just listen to me. If they could just follow what I'm saying, this mess wouldn't have happened.

I was wrong.

I was wrong to do those things.

I was wrong to think those things.

I was wrong to live that life.

But I couldn't see that then.

Everything was in red-colored glasses, and what I was doing was right.

It's hard to see where you're wrong when you can hardly see.

The world had twisted itself in my mind.

Murderers could justify killing as saving.

I did the same thing. Not the killing part, but I saved them.

That part of my view hasn't changed.

I pushed them away to save them.

Their pain was to save them.

I shouldn't think that. It's wrong. I shouldn't have hurt them.

But I saved them from a worse fate.

The tears fall, a sad attempt from me to feel the pain.

The tears are my savior. They tell me that I hate what I've done, that somewhere under the villain, I'm still good.

Because the worst ones don't feel sorry.

So if I am, some part of me is still good.

That's what I want to believe.

But I hurt them.

I watched their blood drip from my fingers. 

I watched the tears, the pain.

I watched it, and I loved it.

Part of me was horrified. I hurt them! No one should do that to someone!

But at the same time, there was a sick fascination in their pain.

I hate myself.

I hate me.

I hate the person I've become, the things that I've done.

I hate the thing I am now.

Where did it go wrong?

When did I cross the line from the guide to the parasite?

Every parasite needs a host. I'm so sorry Thomas.

I'm the cause of your pain.

I hurt you.

I can't live like this.

I can't live a life where all I do is cause pain. But the fade hasn't happened yet.

So I hang on. I can't apologize to everyone. I can't make it right.

But I can apologize to someone.

I can write it down, where my demon can't reach.

It takes a lot of trying. The demon is persistent.

He wants me to write "F-ck off!"

But I refuse. I can't hurt him again.

I keep it inside somewhere, and it eats me. The demon fights my iron grip, and it corrodes me.

But I get the words out.

"I'm sorry."

I wish I could say more. There's an ocean inside of me, and that's just a drop. But no. The demon refuses. He's allowing this because he knows it will only hurt him more. He knows.

I slip it under his door. I hope he just gets mad and kills me. I want the relief of death.

Instead, I go to my room, pulling out the knife.

The only way to do this.

I don't know why I like it.

The pain doesn't hurt too much.

It's a bit of punishment, and a bit just feeling something.

But there's something more. I don't love it, but I don't hate it.

I just...

There's no way to describe it. It doesn't do anything for me, it just...

I wish I could stop, but I don't want to.

I want to want to.

I want to not want to.

I wish time machines existed.

Maybe I could fix things if they did.

But they'd end up screwed somehow.

I'm broken, and instead of turning the pieces inside, I set them out into the world, hurting so many other people.

I hurt them, so I deserve to die.

So why does something tell me to keep going?

It says "You have lives that need you. Patton needs you. He'll fall apart without you."

But the demon/me hisses back "He doesn't need someone who hurts him."

The voice fades. It's just a whisper. "They need you. How'll you fix things if you're dead?"

"I can't. I hurt them. They'll never be ok, and it's my fault."

This is the truth. It's my truth.

I hurt them, beyond the breaking point, and it will never be ok again.

The voice never came back. My hope was gone.

I will lock myself in my room until I fade. That way no one gets hurt.

I just wish it never happened.

But not every wish is granted.