Creatures of sublime wickedness are parading all over your body. They whisper to you. They tempt you to heed their words. They supply you with a torrent of information, with varying levels of accuracy and logic. You tell yourself that their strength is born out of your weakness; if you don’t listen, they will soon shrivel up and die. The sheer weight of the creatures binds you to the spot. You tell yourself that you only have to believe a little longer, but their whispers grow ever louder.

The wicked creatures start with the skin. They crawl right under the surface. You may feel a slight burn around your body—a minuscule but persistent itch that you just cannot seem to scratch. It starts to grow. Ember turns into flame. The creatures ask you politely to reconsider, and for a second, you actually do. They begin to simmer in anger as you pretend everything is completely fine. Their grip tightens over your being. They create a layer between you and the outer world, permanently separating you from the chaos. In return, they demand a sacrifice, but you ran out of offerings.

The wicked creatures take over, as they brute force their way into your mind with a cocktail of emotions in hand. You pretend you had a say in the matter; that it was you who made the decision, but at this point, it really makes no difference to anyone. The flood gates are open now: the anger, the ecstasy, the fear, confusion, hatred, anger, anger, anger, and the despair.

The wicked creatures now sit on the throne of your mind, yet the whispers continue. You have fed them every part of your soul, but they remain insatiable. They seek to deprive you of organs you have always placed your faith in. This is not your body now; it is for them to claim. Your last wall of defense crumbles, yet they do not take everything; they leave enough of you behind to understand the magnitude of the devastation.

The wicked creatures show no remorse, for they are not wicked at all.