You can't see me. But you CAN hear me. As I breathe in your ear. Inhale...exhale...inhale...exhale.

You break the monotony by asking a question, to which I respond in-kind. Still faceless. Yet my voice resonates in your ear, heckling you, asking for more and more information, until one of us considers the interview over and disconnects the bond.

Sometimes, I might even get someone else to breathe in your ear, to speak in your ear, all the while a faceless entity with knowledge about YOU.

"Thank you for calling Customer Support. My name is Trina. How may I help you?" 

I know all your tender spots, those places that hurt the most and I'm going to dig into them, poke them, prod them, pummel and pound them.

I look at you lying there, so vulnerable, and chuckle to myself knowing you will soon be pushed to the limits of your pain.

Should I use my thumbs? Elbows? Suction cups? Needles?

Should I pull your limbs? Stretch you? Contort and twist you?

The pleasant music sings in a lying lullaby.

I grin and crack my knuckles. Oh where should I begin...?

I take your words and hack away at them, slashing them to pieces, rearranging them again and again so they look better on the page and sound better when they're read out loud. I slap down new words and try to coerce you into using them in place of your own. Of course, you're under no obligation to oblige, but what damage will be done if you don't? And I'll hand you back your copy, bleeding with red ink, with a smile and a bill for my services. You're welcome.

You're speeding home.

You plead with God, listening to the dial tone again. Pick-up, dammit!

You reach voicemail a third time. 

You have three minutes until you can skid into your driveway - three minutes of terrifying possibilities cycling through your mind.

You swerve down your neighborhood street.  Convulsing, you leap from the car, blood pulsating, prepared to commit voluntary manslaughter.  No one is downstairs.

You bound upstairs in two strides, screaming his name.  You throw his door open-

My back is facing the door.  I turn; he's drooling on my left sleeve.  I whisper, "Look!  He's finally asleep."

I know almost everything about you. I know where you live. I know your significant other's name. I know where it hurts. I know all of this because you tell me. 

My colleagues subject you to more questioning. They poke and probe you with you sharp and sterile objects. In this confined space, everyone can hear you scream.

After it is all said and done you are allowed to get dressed. Before we release you back into the world, I have the nerve to ask you for money for services rendered.

I'm the registration clerk in an Emergency Room.

It happens every night. Reaper watches as the people disappear. It's Slow at 1st then it's to quickly to count. Reaper climbs the stairs, ascending up and up winding back and forth. Reaching the top Reaper will peer around the dim corners ignoring the solitary giggles of a little girl and responding to the voiceless whistle’s with his own. Then... 

Click! Click! Click! 

The lights go off on their own and the doors lock themselves with a snap. All is dark. Even Reaper’s most loyal followers abandon him now. Reaper must face the darkness alone.

Reaper does night security

Every day I am put into a building full of people my age. We are forced through 50 minute periods of different styles of mental tortures. With the second period being physical and a 30 minute break to consume prepared food in between 5th and 6th periods. The torturer decides about every week and a half that we are ready to be tested and we take a long, complicated test. They grade them and our grades decide where we go for more torture after we are let out after 4 years. 

Or in other words, I go to high school. 

I create and destroy life in a single decision. People exist because of my need and want for them, but the second they are no longer needed or wanted; I end them. Universes come and go at will. One can contain brothers lost through time, while another harbours a serial killer that cannot be found by the law.

The eternal struggle of good and evil, light and dark, to be and not to be; I decide it all. Death is inevitable when your profession is being a writer. However the ability to control anything is the addictive part, right? Right.

Zombies to my left and right, 

eyes half-closed as we write.

The shrill alarm screams,

and we wake from our dreams

to be dragged down the track

that leaves us raw and cracked

Down the looming corridor

Don't look at the coroner 

he decides your fate

Test A, or B?

Pencil to paper,

scratch, scratch, 

Our hearts taper

as we're filed down

to perfection

4 AP classes?

That's not enough.

Your eyes should be red,

your hand swollen from writing,

your body dead 

from avoiding bed,

your mind 

slowly

⠀⠀

and surely

⠀⠀

dying.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

High school fun:)

I raise the vanquishers, the masters, the destroyers of the future.

My every action, my every word will shape this tiny person for good or for ill.

I never dreamed it would be this way.

How fragile they are!

Those soft, chubby hands may one day curl into a fist and damage another without cause.

Those sparkling blue eyes may one day harden into indifference, inflicting injustice to the innocent.

Those gap-toothed grins may one day transform into an sneer, wafting out words of poison and death to those who cry "Mercy!"

So little time.

What will they become?