I have devils under my skin. Doctors tell me they're in my head, but I know better. I can feel them clawing their way down my back. Their tendrils wrap around my hands. Their taunting voices rasp in my ears. They tell me horrible lies. I know they're just lying to me. Aren't they? They're devils, they can't be telling the truth. Right? It's just a lie. It's just a lie. It's just a lie. I squeeze my hands, trying to breathe through the pain. They scream at me to pay attention. They shred my arteries and break my bones with their words. And I snap, yelling at them to knock it off. Telling them to go scare someone else. And a deep ominous laugh hisses in my ears, telling me I'm only upset because I know it's right. If it was lying, it wouldn't bother me, it says. And I deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny but it doesn't matter. I've just loaded the gun and handed it to the devil under my skin. He points it at my head and mocks me while I whimper and tremble. And so I do the only thing I can, I make a deal with the devil. As long as I perform the ritual, he'll be nice to me. Or at least he'll be a little quieter. Or maybe he'll just be a little quieter for a little while. But I have to do the ritual. And I have to do it right. If I don't do it right, it doesn't work and I have to do it again. And again. And again. And again. And maybe then, he'll let me rest. Maybe. But the maybe is all I can hope for. I can't get the devils from out of my skin. The doctor says it's all in my head, but I know better.
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