UNREQUITED; PROLOGUE: Voices

*Warning: Heavily psychological. Work in progress. Heavy usage of improper language (I warned you, no lawsuits). Basis? Insanity (definitely), love (unrequited), sex (always), and death (why not?). How much can one person take before they fragment? Some less than others. All CONSTRUCTIVE criticism welcome (saying "You suck" is not criticism, only annoying and shows everyone else you lack a vocabulary). Be honest, and I thank you in advance if you comment. Oh, as for the double spacing in paragraphs: can't use italics where they matter, so trying to reduce the chaos to a controllable degree. Once again, thank you.*

UNREQUITED; PROLOGUE: Voices

You know what living in the past gets you? Loneliness, shame, depression, and self-hatred. You get to sit and constantly question why and when things got away from you, why you couldn’t hold onto what mattered most to you. Or you wind up like me, sitting in a chair, alone, with a semi-automatic in hand, safety off and fully-loaded.

You’re not alone. You always have me. I’ll never leave you, or forget you like the rest of those whores did. You don’t need to do this.

That would be nice if you weren’t just a fucking voice in my head. Constantly telling me what to do, always looking over my shoulder and controlling me.

How can I look over your shoulder when I look through your eyes?

Figure of speech, you sadistic son of a bitch. Let me finally get some fucking peace.

Can’t let you do that, Lance. YOU created me. YOU gave me control. YOU couldn’t handle your own fucking life anymore. Face it kid, you’re weak. You always were. You need me to pick up your goddamn slack.

I didn’t create you. YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN THERE! I can’t remember a time when I had my own voice, when I could make my own decisions! Every choice I’ve made, you had to put your own two cents into, every relationship I’ve had, you’ve been there to tell me what was wrong with it. Every day I wake up, you’re there to tell me to how to go about the day. I’m tired of it, I want to make my own decision, and I choose to end it all. I choose to say to hell with this life.

But you won’t do it. You still believe that some day she’ll finally notice you. Everything you’ve ever tried to do on your own has been about her. How will this make her feel? How can I make her happy? She’s hurting, how can I make her feel better? You’re fucking pathetic.

At least I try to think of other people.

"Other people" entails multiple. You only care about the singular.

And why is that so damn wrong? To seek companionship in somebody that isn’t just a fucking figment of my imagination, that actually exists in the real world?

We both know just how real I am. Hell, one could say that I’m more real than you could ever be. I’ve actually accomplished shit. What the hell have you done? Pine after the same set of reproductive organs with blonde hair. So, do you know if the carpet matches the drapes? Oh, that’s right; you don’t. She was too busy fucking every other guy with a pulse then to pay you any fucking attention. How long have you been chasing her? Round-about fifteen years? Once again: fucking pathetic.

At least I choose to hope, to dream. All you seem to care for and worship is death, chaos, and bloodshed. I want love. I NEED something, ANYTHING, other than what I have.

What’s wrong with what you have, you ungrateful shit? We’ve had fun. You know you enjoy what I bring to your life.

Enjoy it? I can’t lie: I love it. But I shouldn’t. It’s not natural. I shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t need it. Why do I? Why do I want…

Because it’s in your blood, Lance. You want the chaos, the screaming. You need it. You’re an addict, and what I provide is your drug. You love feeling them squirm. And you’re providing a public service at the same time for those other pathetic slobs who can’t do shit for themselves because they’re SO sensitive. They might as well get a fucking sex change, that’s how far off they are from being men. As much shit as I give you, at least you’re actually willing to pick up the blade.

It’s not me, it’s you. You know that!

You, me, Ted Bundy; the hell does it matter? It’s your body, your prints, your blood, sweat and tears. Who the fuck cares what the guiding persona was? YOU still did it. And you even admitted to it: you LOVE it, remember? I’m your way out. Now put the fucking gun down. I know a good place we can pick up another fucking slut, all hot and ready to go. Wait, what am I saying? They all are.

I refuse to believe that.

And yet, you have yet to manage to stop me. Remember, I am an extension of you. So the things I do, WE do, you want. You won’t admit it, but we both know it’s true. Fuck man, I’M IN YOUR HEAD! You can’t hide shit from me! Give it up! I know you won’t pull that fucking trigger because you know you won’t!

I can’t take this anymore. I can’t. Please make it stop, please. No more, no more, no more.

Shut the fuck up. Who do you think is listening to you? God? Two thoughts on that subject. One, there is no God. Hell, we could be living proof of that. Why else could we possibly be allowed to exist? Or, and this is two, there is a God, and he fucking hates you. I actually like that one more, that there is a God and he hates you. At least then someone is paying you attention other than me. Taking care of your bitch-ass is a full-time fucking job.

FUCK YOU! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

I’m here to stay, fucker. The question that you need to ask is this, though: am I in YOUR head, or does your incessant bitching and whining mean that you’re in my head, and that you’re just my long neglected conscious?
Something to think about. Now put the fucking gun down and wash the redhead’s blood off your hands. She was cute, but I’m still hungry. I’m thinking Chinese.

Fuck you. Why won’t you just leave me alone?

Because that would be too easy. If my “God hates you” idea is right, then that means I’m here to torment you. I don’t want to piss off the big guy, so let’s get this straight: you don’t have a choice here. You never did. You gave that up when you started chasing her.
Now shut the fuck up, and let’s go. The night is still young, and so is the prey. Definitely thinking a threesome tonight. Two to go.