The progression of a disease would be truly fascinating for the patient plagued with it, if it was not so utterly horrific. I imagine their being a map some God can throw down to me, where little red pinpoints mark events that led to, well,where I am mentally. The same way a doctor tracks a patients illness. Look, God would say, finger indicating a scenario in the prior year. Here's when you started losing your sanity. And this one is when you almost smashed in your fathers skull. And here's the one that made you realize you are nothi- Enough, I seethe, wringing my knuckles against my opposite palm; a meek attempt of calming down. Already the virus, the disease, the fucking condition is acting up again. Instead of counting how many times I do it, I should be counting times it doesn't bother me. My fingers twiddle desperately, as if some naive part thinks I can just unravel myself from this mess. I won't do it again. Cold turkey. I'll stop- But now, its creeping into my brain. Making me...feel things. Feel the invisible hands shoving against my back. Feel the cold breath against my skin. Feel the demons crawling inside my skull, infesting me, killing me inside out. No, not killing. Controlling. Brain dead, and yet, still alive. an empty shell to fill with whatever they desire. A puppet. That's what I know. That's all I know. The world is out to get me. One in every ten people I see are casting their spells out, manipulating their hands to send arrays of invisible chains out at me. Muttering their curses under their dead smirk; an attempt to make me a mindless drone. No longer me. I would never be me again. My heart thuds, panic clawing at my throat. And when it's not people, it's the spirits, hiding spells in my room, little flecks of lint or dust I inhale that will grow and grow like a parasite. Toys I adored so much as a child watching me, waiting to attack, to cast their magic. A brush of breath from the unseen monsters, that spread like a cage across my body, capturing me, mindless, forever. Constant terror. I know. I know hearing it sounds absurd. I know there is no logic. Why would a reasonable, somewhat intelligent girl like me believe in such dark magic. Or magic in general. I sound as if I'm some conspiracy speaker waving pamphlets in your face about how Beyonce is in with the president or the moon landing was fake. But, what if? What if I'm right. Why do I feel like there are things crawling all over me? Why does my vision go fuzzy every time I resist the ritual to ward out the spell, or to flinch away from the discomfort? There has to be a reason, and there's that chance, that miniscule chance, that my fears are true. Why does my brain begin squeezing as if two invisible demons are pressing it in, giddily playing the game of WHO CAN MAKE HER SCREAM FIRST? I always scream. My hands have ceased ringing, aware there is no stopping the tidal wave. Shit. Now I feel it crawling in my hair, little invisible bug legs tickling my scalp. I jerk my hand up, fingers raw, and pull at my hair. Now it's in my back. I push my shoulders behind me, an exaggerated pose of when my mother tells me to “sit up straight”. My bones crack. The brushing against my back fades as I hold the pose, unaware if my peers eyes are on me, and completely blank to the class lesson at hand. Because, while I got the feeling to go away, the thoughts came flooding in. You thought of that kid. That kid in the stairwell. Who always snaps. You thought of him while you were doing the back move and now you will become him. I completely believe it. And you may look at me as some idiot, some weak girl (I won't disagree... I am weak) but it's my thoughts. My thoughts are the disease, and there's absolutely no escaping them. I do the move again. The image of the boy floats to my mind. No, just stop. Please please please Stop. The move again, and again, and again, until a clammy sweat breaks out from my body. I imagine a happy memory, one I pretend the parasite has no control over. What a fun game that is; pretend. The picture of the boy-in-the-stairwell-who-I-will-become overpowers my memory. The move again. People are bound to notice. They'd be blind not to. The move again. I freeze, anticipating that random kid to still be etched into my mind, some deadly tattoo branded on by prison flames, but he has scurried away to the back of my brain. For now. A breath escapes, as I turn back to the history lesson, pretending nothing happened. Pretending I'm okay. Pretending I will never give in to the thoughts and rituals again. My hand slaps the back of my neck. What-the-fuck? Something has breathed on, or touched it. They have set their spell in. My head beings squeezing, two walls so tired of holding up against pressure they are moments away from crumbling. The clouds flicker from white to grey, and lightning strikes. I try to resist. I try. Pretend I thrust my shoulders backwards, and my never ending cycle continues.