Never Alone

I was 14 when he found me. I never told anyone. I was young, naive and afraid.
A nagging sense of unease would accompany his presence. After school he would follow me, but never quite close enough for me to look into his face. The coal black cloak set upon his shoulders could've been spun from the very hands of Death himself. Although in stark contrast to his translucent skin, the material appeared to melt into him. When he walked, it was almost as if he were hovering, his movements smooth and fluid. The most terrifying thing about him was his voice, razor sharp but terrifically sweet, like honey coated thunder. Despite never being near enough, I could always hear his voice so clearly. Always in my head, an unwelcome existence where I wanted peace. An omnipresent being always with me even if he was physically absent. Always a whisper in my head.
The first time I heard him I was at school sitting a test. Numbers and equations were soaring around my mind when a delicate voice from the back of my head cut into the chaos.
"Wrong..... Wrong," he taunted. "Stop trying....... You're worthless and will amount to nothing."
I looked up from my paper and silence reigned in the room. No one knew of the battle going on in my head. Afterwards, I couldn't help but go over his words an innumerable amount of times. Back and forth, over and over. It was the final thought before sleep carried me away and the first thing I thought about when I woke, and it continued for quite some time.
Eventually his visits were almost daily. Telling me to get pulled under by the warm clutches of the water while I was having a bath. Reaffirming that everything I did would be a waste of time. That nothing would change and that it wouldn't get better. I tried sobbing and pleading at him to stop, but to no avail. He was persistent and deep down I knew any attempts to free myself were futile.
Until one day I woke up and felt sick to my stomach. Not physically sick, but something felt wrong in my head. I knew it was a bad idea to be left alone when my parents went out. At half nine there was a knock on the door. I was certain it was him. I fled to the bathroom, but it didn't take long for him to pound down the door. His eyes fell on me, curled on the floor, tears swelling over my lids. He had come armed. My wrists were raised above my head and he'd slashed both of them with his blade.
"You did it to yourself. You did it to yourself." He kept repeating it, a crescendo of mocking.
There was a clatter on the floor as the blade slipped from his grasp. His words continued until suddenly they weren't his anymore. They were mine.
I'd done it to myself.

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