Tell A Tale — Gothic Fiction

In My Head By Sarah Gate

The first time I realised that there was someone else in my head I was fifteen years old. It was around five years before I stabbed my brother.

There was this moment when I was twelve where I felt like something entered my head; like something or someone moved my mind to one side to make room for their own. I thought maybe I just hadn’t eaten enough. The fogginess didn’t last long and I forgot all about it until she woke up when I was fifteen and made herself known. When she did I realised she had been there the whole time.

It was my fifteenth birthday party and my friends and family were standing around me whilst I waited to cut the cake. They were singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and then I heard her. Her voice is low, gruff and sinister. When she speaks to me it’s like she’s stood right behind my left ear and whispering right into my eardrum. She likes to appear from nowhere because she enjoys making me shiver.

“Happy birthday dear Blair,’ she sang along with them.

I’ve done everything to try and get her out. I’ve asked her to leave. I’ve visited a church. I’ve tried enchantments and spells. The problem is that she knows what I’m thinking most of the time. She can hear my thoughts, but I can’t hear hers, and nothing makes her more angry that when she realises I am thinking about new ways to get her to leave.

And she can throw me out of my own mind. Sometimes she’ll let me watch what she’s doing with my body. Usually it’s something perverted that I would never do myself. I lost my virginity to a man I didn’t know because she decided that she wanted to feel what sex was like.

I thought that I had resigned myself to sharing my body with the creature who invaded it when I was just a child, but when I was twenty I woke up one day and realised she had sent me away for almost a year. She had eaten so much that I had put on a stupid amount of weight. She was injecting my body with drugs and prostituting me to make the money to buy it. I’d had enough. I needed her out.

She did warn me not to try anything, but the next time I had the opportunity to do it I told my little brother what was happening. He would probably have me institutionalised, but at least then the doctors would tie my body down and stop her from hurting me.

But she caught me telling him, grabbed a knife from the drawer in the kitchen and stabbed him to death. I screamed and screamed and screamed, and she let the noise come out of my mouth and allowed me to feel his blood gushing over my hand.

When she was done she told me never to try and get her out again. I haven’t.

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