Don’t worry, it’s fiction.


He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like any of us, actually.
I suppose it’s mutual, because we’re stuck in him just as much as he is stuck with us. We’d like to get out, but nobody yet has figured out how to do that.
The level of our spitefulness towards him comes in spurts. A lot of times we’re quite docile – and I’m one of the most so -, just drifting around in the prison of his head with nothing to do, nowhere to go.
When we’re agitated, of course, we like to mess with him a hell of a lot more, and we can, very easily. Screaming things into his head, telling him to go places, do things, stay here, hide there, until he is crouched in a corner, covering his ears with his eyes closed… It’s such fun, really.
There are five of us in here. Honestly, I’m the most “antisocial” of the group, and typically tell him to stay away… Those people hurt and kill and they’re after you…
He believes me, almost as if I were on his team. How stupid.
Another thing we like doing, sometimes, is, just as he begins to finally fall to sleep after his hour of tossing and turning and doubting reality, to scream something in his ear, just as the world is fading from his mind as he’s falling into the peaceful oblivion of sleep. He jerks awake and, though it has happened hundreds of times before, he still wonders whether it was truly in his mind or not… Whether those evil people who hunt him have finally gotten close enough, found a way into his room while he’s sleeping…
A lot of the time, though, we aren’t quite so cruel to him. We whisper to him, to each other, just enough to cause him to debate what is real and what isn’t. The slight murmur of voices half-heard can be quite troubling when you’re alone.
Such is the life of a formless voice trapped inside a mortal’s head – our life, our torture, only goes on as long as the host still lives. His torture goes on only long as he remains alive.


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