You were meant to be a demon.
I always knew I was different. I’m worse. I never knew I was too different, too worse, too evil.
I’m not good. I’m not a good son, I’m not a good sibling, I’m not a good friend, I’m not a good boy; I can’t be.
I thought it was kind of normal. I thought nightmares about bloody corpses, about people I love being killed by me, about people killing others I love was normal. I thought they were just nightmares.. but they were dreams. Because demons don’t get nightmares, humans do. Demons hurt, hate, kill.
I thought I was just a teenager, an angry one. I thought when I dreamt about blood and dead bodies, when I have evil thoughts, when I hate too severely, when I feel the joy in my evil wishes to kill and ruin, when I’m bloodlust, it was just overthinking. It wasn’t. It was me, the real me. The demon.
I killed him in one of my dreams, I killed her nine times in another. I kill them all twice daily, by existing. I hurt her, I killed her, I betrayed her, and she still loves me, chooses me, wants me. Because she never knew. She never thinks I might be the one to hurt her so much, to betray her too easily. She never knows she shouldn’t trust me. There will come a time when she gets to know everything, when she stops loving me, because she is too hurt by me.
If everybody ever knows everything about me, the complete truth, they will all hate me, they will all leave. Nobody likes demons. Nobody will like me. Everyone will fear my evil; fear that slowly shifts to hatred. I know someday will come, when everyone will leave. When I’m isolated, abandoned. I don’t blame them. I don’t like demons either, I don’t like me. I never did.