I love them. These two boys, Sven and Gerard, that my eyes are drawn to right now. They’re…so beautiful, inside and out. And I love them.

But it’s those voices that I hate…those voices that invade and control my body. I despise them.

They make me do things to hurt Sven and Gerard…The voices don’t like me being with anyone but themselves…

Anyone but myself.

--

It’s morning, and we’re lazily just lying on the couch together. It’s a Saturday, so we have the weekend to do what we want and be ourselves. We’re older now, too, on our own and away from teenage ridicule at three men being in love.

Anyway, I’m on the end of the couch, Sven lying with his head in my lap and Gerard witting with his legs thrown over Sven’s stomach. I’m stroking Sven’s hair lightly, and he leans into my touch.

Sometimes, there’s nothing. No voices, no urges. It’s what I feel now, and it’s absolute peace.

But it never lasts long.

‘You want to see their blood spill,’ the voices suddenly whisper in the back of my mind. ‘You want to see it pour from their bodies, see it coat your hands and stain your clothes. You don’t just want to see it, you want to create it.’

I stifle a whimper, trying to block them out.

‘Go on, go grab a knife from the kitchen…hold it in your fist and raise it above their pleading bodies as they beg for their lives.’

‘Shut up!’ I mentally scream, trying not to let Sven or Gerard on to my inner turmoil. ‘Stop telling me what to do!’

And just as suddenly as they arrive, they’re gone.

--

Now we’re eating dinner together. I’ve gone the whole day without hearing a thing, except from the two I love and myself. It’s been bliss.

We’re eating spaghetti that Gerard, being our culinary specialist, made. It’s really good, so I just let myself indulge in the moment. Then, just as I’ve finished, and taking my plate to the sink, they return.

‘Go on,’ the voices cackle. ‘You’re right next to the knife drawer.’

I just ignore them and proceed in washing my plate, albeit more slowly than usual.

‘Go on, stab them. Stab them. Kill them. Make them beg!’

Dropping the china plate to the floor with a loud crash, I scream, “Go away!”

I pressed my hands to my ears in an attempt to block them out. I can feel the boys’ eyes on me, confused and scared. But I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drown out the persistent internal shouts of ‘Stab them, kill them! Make them bleed, make them beg!’

Crying, I tear my hands away from my head and let them fumble with the drawer next to me. I pull out the longest knife I see, and I hold myself up with one hand pressed against the counter in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say pathetically. “I’m sorry Sven, Gerard. I can’t bear to hurt you. Take care of each other.”

Then there’s the sharp pain that bursts throughout my chest as I shove the knife right in the middle of it. It’s a terrible pain that increases tenfold as the tip of the knife tears at my heart.

But then, it starts to fade away.

The voices of those I love and those I hate slip into nothingness, and I soon follow.