June 11, 2017
By kebennett20 BRONZE, Clarkston, Michigan
kebennett20 BRONZE, Clarkston, Michigan
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

As I was cleaning the rest of what was left of him up from the floor of my bathtub, I felt the same rush of guilt and self hatred I experienced the last time this happened. It’s not me who’s doing this. Or at least I don’t want it to be. I try so hard to resist but every now and then, I can’t control it. The urges are just too strong. It’s been twice now and I don’t know when I’ll feel it next. I just want it all to stop, for it all to go away and never come back. I want to forget all of it. I’m absolutely terrified of what I might do next.
It’s like there’s someone inside of my head telling me that it’s okay. That I need to do these things to be satisfied. And I swear it’s not me. No, I could never do those things. I can’t get those images out of my head. He was so cold, there were cuts running up and down the entire length of his body. And I did that. No...no no no. I didn’t do that. It wasn’t me, it couldn’t have been me. I don’t want it to be. I just want to forget. I grab the almost full bottle of whiskey from the top left cabinet before going to get a roll of duct tape that was still next to the bathtub from just hours before. I want this to all go away and never happen again. I sit down in a chair away from anything that I could use against anyone else and I keep myself there, only being able to reach my bottle.
Why do I keep feeling this? I can’t handle this anymore. I want it to go away. All of it. I want them both to just go away. I try drowning my memories, but it intensifies my wants and I can’t control it anymore. No, stop. I start ripping at the tape I put around my ankle before I became my other self. Please...I can’t handle this again. Not again. I free myself and sloppily make my way down the hallway into the kitchen. I get angry and frustrated as I dig through my drawer, trying to find a knife sharp enough. You can’t do this to her, no, stop. Please...stop. I move on to reach for the phone that hung on my wall not too far away. She doesn’t deserve this.
“911, what’s your emergency?...Hello...is anyone there?”
“...it wasn’t me. I swear.”

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