It’s your fault. It’s you.

Joyce woke up screaming from the night terror that haunted her, every single night. She was always searching for something, never knowing exactly what it is. The tightened feeling in her chest never went away, like she was suffocating. She had to force her lungs to breathe, getting the air into them. She hated this, her dreams always ending like this.

The art inside her heart could never escape from all the darkness weighing it down, feeling heavy in her chest. To drown the voices out, she drew sketches of the monsters she saw at night. They never came out exactly how she wanted; never close enough to what they actually looked like.

Sometimes the voices clouded her head, telling her things, yelling the truths she always lies to herself about. The things no one dares to say. Like how her dad put a bullet in his head because of her mother’s affair and how she could never really forgive him after that; how she hated herself for always forgetting to say “I love you” to him at night.

Someone was speaking to her, trying to break her from her chance. Her eyes focused, realizing she was looking at her best friend, Lily. She was trying to shake Joyce awake. “Wake up! Please, wake up.”

Joyce gasped, like she was underwater and finally coming up to the surface to take a breath. Her nails dug into her palms so hard they were bleeding. The covers were thrown to the side, far away from the bed. Lily eyed her warily, dark circles underneath her eyes. She felt bad for her friend, not letting her sleep a good night’s rest in a while.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” She mumbled, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. It read 3 a.m., way too early for either of them to be up. Lily shrugged, dragging Joyce to the living room. It was a nightly routine for them. Joyce would have her nightmares, Lily would wake her up, and they would make tea and watch the four a.m. news.

Joyce clicked the TV on and sat on the couch, running a hand through her bedhead hair. She wondered why she was so afraid of herself. She fisted her hands around the cup, squeezing as hard as she could. She was so deep in thought, the hot tea that spilled all over her lap didn’t bother her.

“Joyce! What are you doing?” Lily rushed to her, alarmed. She pulled her friend up; turning on the cold water and having Joyce hold her hands under.

The burns of her hands and thighs stung, but Joyce barely noticed, pain not able to bring her out of the numbness. She felt incredible cold in her heart, and she didn’t know why. She didn’t really want to find out, either.

After Lily applying first aid to Joyce, wrapping her hands in bandages, they sat down to watch the nightly news. They didn’t talk, for it was too early for the heart-to-heart conversations.

The lady with fake lips and an even more fake smile appeared on the screen, one of the newscasters. Her blonde hair was bigger than Texas and her bright blue eye shadow was not appealing. She did have some important information to say, though. “Tonight has been the fourth murder of a serial killer. All the murders are done the same way. The person cuts off all the victim’s limbs with only a knife, and then sows them back together. Tonight was the young twenty-one year old, Jordan Young, who attended our local college.”

Lily let out a blood-curdling scream. Jordan was in most of Lily’s classes, being good friends. She locked herself in her room, not able to stop crying. Who could do such a sick thing to a breathing, living person?

Joyce was exhausted from trying not to let her fall into the hands of something unpredictable. Something she couldn’t control; the dustiest, darkest corner of her soul. But now, the terrifying parts of her mind weren’t just following her in sleep.

The distorted faces of beings she had never seen before stood before her, staring at her. They were missing lips, noses, even eyes. They spoke several languages all at once. What was happening to her? The demons of her own mind began to enclose around her, like a warm hug she tried not to welcome.

She held her breath, everything getting a bit blurry now. Static shielded her vision, and finally, she could think clearly. Were they hallucinations? She couldn’t tell what was real or not anymore.

When she woke up, she was dressed and at a lecture, and she couldn’t help but wonder how she got there. Were the blackouts worrying her? They should’ve. Joyce didn’t question it, though. Her subconscious kept a lot of things hidden from her, but she let it.

The next time she could actually comprehend what was happening was when Lily was talking to her after school. “I think you need help,”

I need a lot of it. She thought to herself, but didn’t dare say out loud.

And then she was consumed by the darkness again.

She heard sobbing, crashing, lots of noises. It sounded like her household as a child when her dad would get his paycheck and drink until his lungs burned and he couldn’t think straight. He would never try to hurt his family, but he did it unintentionally. The money that they didn’t have that he spent on booze tore them apart.

She assumed the weeping was her own, but boy was she in for a surprise. The scorches on her hands prickled, tingling. Everything was obscure, the light slowly turning on. The fear inside of her was spreading to every part of her body and she couldn’t feel. She felt disoriented, emotionless. Who is this person?



She’s watching a girl, someone so corrupt that they look evil, and she is exactly that. She’s injuring Lily, cutting and breaking her friend. The girl is Joyce.
Sounds echo in her ears, and she doesn’t know what she’s doing, doesn’t know if she even wants to. Finally, she’s back in her own body, and she’s staring right into the empty eyes of her best friend.
“Joyce, this isn’t you.” A wail escaped Lily’s mouth. A knife was against her neck, the knife Joyce was holding. She felt so empty, like someone stole everything that was good inside her. “This isn’t you.” She repeated, her voice cracking.
The blood that was on Joyce’s hands trickled down between the two girls, mixing with both of their tears. She pressed the blade harder into Lily’s neck, tilting her head in a confused manor as the girl cried out in pain.
Joyce gazed at the person who looked back at her in the mirror, covered in red and black, the only colors she could see now.

“This is me.”

Whether it was the slit of the throat or a snap of the neck, Lily died. Joyce was soon to follow, but by a tie of a noose. For some people, the air is too thick for them to breathe.