Dedicated to the above user because they literally stayed up until some time around 11:00 at night to 4:30 in the morning, reading this book. That's dedication-worthy (and a sign that you might need psychological help)!

Eventually, the doctor managed to force a modified respirator over my nose. Syringes and the medicine they contain don't work on me - haven't since the Voice moved in - or it would have taken merely a prick on my bicep for the sleeping poison to enter my system. As it is, I have to have a respirator constantly pumping the sleeping gas into my nostrils or mouth if I am to be knocked unconscious.

I finally passed out in this way and while I was down, he replaced my teeth. Again.

Now I am back in my cell. All of the surfaces are made out of a squishy foam material, and I am curled into them, relishing the throbs of pain from my gums. It gives me something primal and concrete to focus on instead of the incredible, dark complexity that resides within me.

Mom always called me philosophical. What would she call me now?

Something along the lines of "bitch," I would imagine.

The same woman who was caring for me enters. Why is she back? She seems to be very interested in me. I don't like it.

"Hello, Sage," she greets me carefully. I do not respond. Why would I? Casual greetings - "hellos" are from another world, no, another universe. I am in this universe. We do not say "hello" here.

"You're going to go on a trip," she blurts out after a moment of silence. She's one of those people who can't stand the quiet. I despise those people, although I am one myself.

The Voice senses an opportunity in her words and latches onto it. "Ooh, where are we going? The electric chair? The firing squad?" I giggle and grin lazily at my own macabre jokes.

The woman smiles softly. "This is a mental hospital. We don't euthanize our patients. Besides, you know that we have done away with those methods. They haven't been used in a century."

"Oh, yes, that's right. You just inject the poison and down we go!" The Voice leaves, her work well done. I frown at the draining feeling, quieting. "Where am I really going?"

The woman sighs - in relief, I would presume, at my sensical question. "You and a group of other...troubled...teens are being sent to Mars."

"Why?"

"You will be allowed more freedom without there being concern for surrounding civilians. There are also new rehabilitation programs being held on Mars, and you are one of the chosen test subjects." The woman beckons through the door and in comes the familiar metal cart. The Voice is just as confused as I am, so we are silent together. What does she mean, more freedom? And "new rehabilitation programs?" Are the methods so unethical that they can't be held on this planet for fear of legal repercussions? I can't imagine they're truly better.

I strain against the straightjacket as the two accompanying men lift me up and strap me onto the cart. For some reason, my thoughts drift back to my old outfits, before I was dressed in this same straightjacket for three years straight. They were very comfortable, I remember wistfully. My closet consisted of black or ripped skinny jeans and T-shirts with different logos splayed across the front. I believe I began murdering people in ripped black skinny jeans and a dark sugar skull-themed T-shirt, I think. I'm not sure. That was back when I was still fighting my insane roommate, so I didn't pay attention to a lot of stuff outside of The Voice.

We roll into the same facility I was in yesterday to have my teeth replaced. "Why are we here?" I ask nervously. The Voice stands at the ready.

"You're going to be rendered unconscious for a cleaning process," the woman responds. The Voice perks up and I know it is going to fight the drug used to knock me out with all its might. Usually, when I am cleaned, I am chained down and halfheartedly washed, often through my straightjacket to kill two birds with one stone. I've grown accustomed to feeling dirty. But now - a drug? This sounds like it will be a more in-depth process.

"Needles don't work on me," I inform her as if she doesn't already know. "You're going to have to use the mask."

"We can't. We need to clean your face." The woman grimaces as if what is about to happen is bad for her and not just me.

Two more people appear, a man and a woman. They are both wearing metal gloves.

Without warning, they rip my mouth open and force in a large pill. I try to scream, bucking and writhing in a desperate attempt to escape them despite the bonds preventing me from doing so. They firmly hold my mouth shut and I realize with utter dread that the capsule is dissolving.

I thrash against the unforgiving surface of the icy trolley, shrieking against my closed lips and wanting, needing to bite something. I assume that's why these indifferent "caretakers" are sporting metal gloves.

And soon enough, I drift into darkness.

I stumble into consciousness as I am being cleaned. I cannot move. My muscles are locked. The pill, whatever it was, wasn't just to put me to sleep. It was to utterly paralyze me.

Whoever's cleaning me, they aren't even trying to be gentle. They're spraying me with a hose.

And I am wearing a muzzle. No, not quite a muzzle, more like a cage that encases my entire head. It is made of thin, gridlocked bars of metal so that some of the water can also reach my face.

My hands are behind my back. They are covered by multiple layers of cloth and tape, and are then tied to metal bands pinning my ankles together.

The Voice is in a panic. It cannot control what is happening to us, not in the least. This is what it feels like, I think at it triumphantly. This is the hell you put me through on a daily basis.

And I finally drift back into merciful unconsciousness.

When I next wake, I am being loaded onto a spaceship.

I am seated in a wheelchair. I'm wearing another straitjacket, but this time, my arms are pinned at my sides instead of forced across my torso. Now, my muzzle only stretches over my mouth, as per usual.

Also, several thick metal bands are pinning me to the wheelchair.

I am unlocked and lifted from the wheelchair and strapped onto a vertical sheet of metal. There are other people in these cramped quarters. They are all staring at me.

One is a huge boy. He must be close to seven feet tall, although he looks no older than I am, and sports biceps literally the size of my head. His hands are tightly bound with several different heavy-duty restraints.

Another passenger is a petite girl a little older than the boy and me. Her hair is completely shaved off and she has a metal band wrapped around her mouth similar to my muzzle.

A small boy is shaking violently as he suspiciously eyes us all. He is missing his legs, and the resulting stubs are incredibly scarred and at uneven heights. Metal legs take the real ones' places, though. They are tightly tied together to prohibit movement.

The final passenger is a little girl, about nine years old and the tiniest child I've ever seen - not that I've seen any in the past couple of years. She is the youngest out of all of us by far.

The same woman that has been taking care of me recently joins us in the spaceship, strapping herself into the last empty position. She reaches over and removes my muzzle quickly, recoiling as soon as she can.

"Hey, lady!" I cheer, the Voice taking over. "How goes your pathetic career of taking care of the criminally insane?"

She does not react in the slightest.

"Also, I just happened to notice that I'm the one here with the most restraints. Does that mean I'm the most dangerous? Oh, flattered, thank you. I would shake your hand, but I'm a little tied up at the moment." I wriggle. I can see the other teenagers staring at me as if they are watching a monkey at the zoo.

You want a monkey? I'll give you a monkey.

"Okay, so since I'm completely bound up because I can use any part of my body to wound, maim, or kill, I'm going to assume that that's the line of reasoning you people were following with these upstanding youths. He smashes people's heads in with his bare hands - oh, that's impressive - she rips them open with her teeth - wow - he...what? Beats people with his metal legs? Hides things in them? Honestly, he's a little confusing. And that little girl is only strapped in for the launching process and to keep her from running, so I'm going to assume that she uses a weapon that is not her body. Makes sense, because what part of her body could she possibly use? She's tiny."

"I will now be reading you each other's case files," the woman announces, flicking a warning glance at me.

"Ooh! Wait till you hear mine!" I murmur excitedly. I am actually kind of having fun with this, watching my fellow inmates get more and more disturbed. Does that mean that I am completely gone? Is it just the Voice in my head?

No. Before this parasite I was just as crass and macabre. It was my way of putting up a shield so people would avoid me, or at least not try to dig too deep. Typical teenage emo crap.

"Jake. Killed thirteen people, mutilated twelve, and incapacitated ten with his fists under the influence of drugs."

"Psh, only thirteen? Sweetie," I laugh.

"Nicole. Killed thirty people by biting open their necks and collecting jars of their blood."

"What'd you do with all of it?" I ask in wonder. "I'm rather impressed!"

"Xavier. Cut off his legs and used metal ones containing hidden compartments to aid his father in the family's drug cartel. Also hired himself out for mercenary work, either using traditional weapons or beating his victims to death with his metal legs. Forty-four victims."

"Nobody's even come close to me," I pout. Glancing at the little girl, I shrug and say, "Maybe you will, sweetheart."

"Deirdre. Shot her mother, father, and older twin brothers when she was five. Charges were dropped when she sobbed in court after realizing what had happened. Went on to shoot fifteen people later that year and ten when she was six. After shooting twenty people when she was seven, she was captured. Forty-eight victims including her family."

"I am the craziest! Yay!" I cheer. The closest killing count to mine was only forty-eight? Weak.

"Sage. Went on a killing spree around the country for no apparent reason, relying on whatever objects she could find at the sites of her murders. Largest weapon used: a fridge. Smallest: the gun broken off of an action figure. 153 victims."

Jake snorts incredulously, his eyes wide. "You think we're even on the same level with a girl that killed 153 citizens with stuff like tiny plastic guns?"

"Well, I know your kill count weren't as impressive as mine, but that doesn't mean you have to be sour about it," I mutter grumpily.

"I was high! What's your excuse?"

"Voices," I reply casually. The Voice doesn't care how revealed it is now that it knows it is in good company.

"Jake was high on several highly illegal, dangerous narcotics. Nicole was brainwashed by her abusive stepfather into believing that that she was a vampire when she was a child as a twisted joke. She later went on to develop serious mental disorders and build her crimes off of what she had believed as a child. Xavier had a father who was already involved in the business of drugs and murder. Deirdre says she..." The woman paused, squinting at her notes in disbelief.

"Is addicted to killing living things!" the little girl pipes up voluntarily. "Guess how many animals I killed?" The question is quite obviously directed at me.

"Well, I have a feeling it's going to put my numbers to shame," I reply benevolently. The Voice likes this little girl. She is one of us.

"Four hundred thirty three!" she announces, obviously quite proud of this number. "Basically every animal I came across while a fugitive!"

"Holy hand grenades, she's good," I mutter to Xavier, who is strapped in next to me.

"Murdering animals is not good," he responds bitingly.

"No, of course not. That's why she's here," I say as if he is slow. Then, to the whole room: "I just know we're going to be bestest friends!"

I laugh and laugh as they watch me in mild horror. The woman just sighs and adjusts the straps holding her in place.

I laugh as the spaceship lifts off. Laughing...laughing...laughing...