It was never supposed to be this way. There was never an expectation of smooth sailing, but she never expected to be the villain. The driving need to disassociate from everything, the draw of something to numb it all away is chomping at her mind like a rabid dog. The old family path never far below the surface. It makes sense that she ended up the villain. How does the saying go? The road to hell is paved with good intentions. 

Sometime ago she decided to start removing the masks that she had so carefully cultivated since childhood. The sweet overachiever, the doe eyed simp wearing all of her damage like a cheap concert t-shirt. Stripped naked, what is seen? A scarred wraith. Full of wants and desires, the wounds healed with the ugly that lies beneath. So empty that all she can feel is the need to consume as she is being consumed by the awful thing inside her.

You have not tried hard enough. This refrain is almost louder than the rabid dogs begging for numbness. You should have been able to keep it all intact. You were created as a bargaining chip, yet what good are you now? You can’t hold anything together. The lives you touch, the lives you claim to help just get marred by darkness. 

She opens her mouth wide so desperately wanting to scream all of the pain and vileness out of this shell- to purge once and for all this deep seated horror. Nothing comes, tears furious running down her face. Rage that she can’t pull, push or rip this monster that is woven into every fibre of her being. 

Is it real? Is she real? Take the skin off to look. The sweet moment of searing pain, quiets the chorus of destruction for a pause, then it all comes back. Loud. 

She remembers there are times she out ran it. She was ‘normal’, she always handles things so well, always a plan. Tools to help- tools of destruction. A shining example with a secret cost.

Some days it feels as though the villain is held in submission, that she has a chance, that she feels like the carefully crafted human she has always wanted to be. Some days the villain escapes and torments her- reminds her its all smoke and mirrors 

There are hands to grab hold of as she goes down, and somedays she can, when it’s not so bad- but on the worst days she cries out for the Gods but whispers nary a word to any other. Wanting the gentle relief of the nothing, where its quiet and nothing lives, sleep. 

She can not be seen this way. The day must move on, do you see the shake in her hand? the tightness of her smile? the absent minded moments in conversation? the dullness in her eyes? There is a full war going on inside her. And after all this time she’s still not sure the good guy will win, or if there ever truly was a good guy, maybe just the villain in disguise