A man came to my house a few years ago. I never invited him, he just turned up. At first I wondered if he planned to kill me.
But he was so softly spoken, and moved so quietly about the house that I decided it would be better if I just let him stay.
I'd never been popular, but I did have friends.
But every time I tried to see them the man would look at me and ask if it would not be better to stay at home with him instead? So I did, and he'd tell me it was better this way.
I'd always enjoyed sleeping, but I could usually drag myself away from my bed. But every morning the man would sit by my bedside, and remind me of the dangers outside my door.
Remind me of the days where I failed. Wouldn't it be better to just stay in bed, where there was no danger, and no failure? So I did, and he'd tell me it was better this way.
I'd never loved myself, but I did find things to like. But one by one he broke them down, made them smaller and smaller until they were entirely insignificant.
Wouldn't it be better to forget your so-called 'strengths', and just know that you are deeply, irreparably flawed? So I did, and he'd tell me it was better this way.
Today I sit with a rope in my hands, on the edge of nothingness. My first suspicions about him were correct. Well, almost.
After all, why kill someone when you can get them to do the dirty work for you?