text: He may be dying, but the boy never felt more alive. Voices, loud and blaring, echoing through the brain late in the night are not the kind of thing you'd expect to enjoy, but the boy found an almost serene solace in listening to them. They berated him, making mountains of every small mistake from the hours prior, and yet the boy felt that no one else could even begin to understand him more. He felt powerless to stop the Voices, sure, but never really paid any mind to that. Misery was his home, and the Voices were the toads croaking him to sleep. The Voices, as it turned out, would eventually consume the boy. Night after night, they rang out like the dripping of a faucet, their words slowly chipping away at the boy. By the time he had an inkling of understanding as to their true intentions, it was already too late. The Voices had become the boy and the boy a single voice. While the Voices themselves rang out like an orchestra, the boy's Voice was quiet, a single wavering flame in a sea of darkness. The boy could do naught but watch in horror as the Voices took the control away. The Voices would harm the boy in numerous ways, whether it was neglecting to care for his health, refusing to communicate with his friends and family, or even slicing away at the boy's armor in the dark of the night. Yet, the boy held steadfast. He hadn't the strength to overcome the Voices, but he wasn't about to let himself fade away in the ether. It was his body, his life, after all, and if there was anything to be done, the boy was going to find it. There were days where the Voices seemingly relinquished control. The boy would awake midday, as was the Voice's usual schedule, but would find that instead of being trapped in his head, he was able to move his own body, to make his own decisions. Of course, the constant fear of the Voices' return paralyzed him. He knew they'd be back, they always came back, so the boy could do nothing but breathe and wait. The boy and the Voices performed this macabre dance for years, varying in complexity and severity. There were times where the boy felt as though he were close to fading away, like a candle in a hurricane. Even still, there were days where the Voices never made an appearance, days where the boy could feel the warmth of the sun and smell the aromas of the flowers around him. The boy yearned for those days, prayed loudly to any deity that would listen for just one more day like those. The Voices would always say that this was the last day, but the boy knew better. He knew that the Voices would work to keep those days away from him, so he needed to work even harder to keep the Voices away from those days. The boy devised a plan. He'd always been smart, almost to a fault, attempting to find the logic in even the most minutiae of details. He patiently waited for that next day of control, for the Voices to return to whatever Circle of Hell they came from, and got to work. He wrote a letter to his family, and the few remaining friends he still had, and placed them in the mailbox. He paid his bills and took a long, hot shower. He grabbed a large knife from the kitchen. Then, he locked the door, sat in his recliner and waited. Hours passed until the boy could feel the Voices bubbling up again. They begain to sneer at him, attempting to make light of the day's progress. He paid them no mind. He was about to discover whether or not the day he'd been planning forever would end as he wished it would. The boy stood from his chair, fighting an internal struggle for control, and walked towards the center of the room. There, inside a circle of candles, the boy began to chant, softly at first, then louder. And louder. And louder still. There was a loud flash, then nothing. When the boy awoke, he found himself staring at himself. This version of himself was a fraud, a compilation of all the things the Voices had tried to convince the boy were true. The plan had worked, but now was not the time for celebration. The boy rushes to pick up the blade he had dropped. The Voices, realizing the plan the boy had hatched, struggled to stop the boy by any means necessary. The Voices berated the boy, accusing him of awful, heinous things, screaming in the boy's voice to put the knife down, that he'll never accomplish anything, that he'll always be under their control. The boy had had enough. No more talking. He thrust the blade into his doppelganger's chest and twisted. The Voices howled in pain, screaming as the body fell to the floor, rapidly convulsed, and then...nothing. The boy had done it. The Voices were no more. The boy looks down at his chest, noticing his own large, wet spot developing, and smiles. He may be dying, but the boy never felt more alive.