You generally hate waking up on the weekends and going to sleep on the weekdays before them. These are quiet times. Times where your mind will rush and screech then crash into oblivion. There is a voice inside your head. One you fail at shutting up.
It is at its loudest when there's complete silence. You stare at your desk and think about what you need to get done that day. You put your headphones on and put on something loud but nothing comes out. You see the wire connected to the stereo is frayed. You deserve this, the voice whispers. You try to read but your mild dyslexia distracts you. You read the same sentence over and over again. You read the same sentence over and over again. You read the same sentence over and over again. And your mind splits in two. You try to follow along with your finger this time and you read the same sentence over and over again. You are the dumb child you've always been, the voice says. You open the door to your room and check if anyone is awake. They aren't. You go to the kitchen, hoping that making coffee will help shut your mind up. As you pour the grounds into the filter, your hand slips sending bits off coffee all over the kitchen counter. They scatter across the floor like scared ants. You are human garbage, the voice laughs.
You spend the rest of the morning cleaning the mess you made, shaking your head left and right in disappointment. You've given up on making coffee so after you finish cleaning you walk back into your room and crawl back into bed. You pull the covers over your head and clench your jaw. It hurts. But maybe you need to hurt for a little bit. Yes, you need to hurt, the voice eggs you on. Your hands freeze into fists and they feel locked in place. You wish you could have someone punch you in the face until your brain stops. You scream into the pillow, trying to drown out the negativity coming from inside you. The wall, the voice says, the wall. The wall. The wall. You get up. The wall. The wall. You walk towards your bedroom wall. The voice is pleading with you, the wall, the wall, the wall, the wall, it says. And just like that, it happens. Your brick fist flies through the bedroom wall at such a speed that all the frames fall off in front of you. You wrestle your hand out of the plaster and see that it's covered in blood. That's good, the voice pats you on the head, don't stop. And you don't. You don't stop until the voice does.