The Voices in my head never stop.

They never cease their constant torments.

They drown my mind in their incessant lies.

The Voices in my head never stop.

They control my life, ruling from within.

They are eating my soul, lie by simple lie.

Every day I am woken by the Voices. These little things in my mind, whispering lies to me, telling me to do things, making me hate people I have never heard of, met, seen. The Voices rule my life. Sometimes I wake up, my clothes torn to shreds, blood under my nails, my surroundings unfamiliar. Sometimes I find a newspaper, the front cover showing the death of a person I remember from the Voices. They always die by the same causeā€¦ their throat ripped out.

These deaths follow me around, whoever I go, wherever I move, wherever I wake up, these deaths, all the same, follow me around. I guess you could say I killed them, but I have no recollection of committing these acts of murder. No memories.

They tried locking me up; mental institutes, prisons, hospitals, science labs. Nothing worked. I escaped. I don't know how, I don't know why. One day I would be strapped to a table, arms and legs bound in a bone crushing grip, the next I would wake with the sun, laying among the roots of a tree, curled up in a ball with the remains of my hospital gown clutched around me for warmth.

Some days I wake up with some clothes, a pair of jeans, some new shoes, but usually I find myself in tattered rags, so ruined I didn't what they were.

I wake, not knowing where I am and everyday the Voices whisper to me, and everyday I ignore try to them, trudging through ever changing landscapes not knowing or even caring where I am headed. Everyday I live, not knowing what the Voices will make me do next, not knowing who I am.

My name was lost long ago. The Voices call me Myla Hunter, the papers call me Sophia Cordrey, the trees call me Sasha. I am fourteen, but I have lived and taken enough lives to be thousands of years old. I am just a girl, one who used to do as a girl should. I used to dress up, play with dolls, sleep in a little pink bed next to my twin brother. That's all I remember, up until the age of eight I would spend my nights in a rose pink bed, three feet from my brother Finn in his baby blue bed beside me. I did that every night for eight years. Then one day I opened the Box.

The Box. That's what made the Voices come. That small wooden Box, engraved with words like Hope, Sorrow, Fear. The Box reminded me of stories I had been told, stories of a girl who opened a box and the world filled with nightmares and horrors. Only one thing remained in her small wooden box, Hope. When I opened the Box, a pair of eyes looked back at me, two unblinking eyes, a green so deep and piercing, two eyes that were painful to even look at. Two eyes that seemed to latch onto my soul as I stared into them. Two eyes that I see whenever I come across a puddle or window. These aren't my eyes, my warm hazel eyes, these are the Voice's eyes. The eyes haunt my reflection like the Voices haunt my mind, and they have done since I opened that small wooden Box. I have carried that Box around with me, welded into my palm, for six years. Nothing would ever make me let go of it, but nothing would make me open it either. The Voices wouldn't let me.