“Do you know what the definition of insanity is Joseph?” the voice said, in an almost soothing tone, “It’s trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results.”
“It is in fact one of the most remarkable traits of the human race. We just don’t know when to give up.” The voice said, moving to the far left corner of the room; away from the near limp body secured to a wooden chair, under a single flickering bulb. And as the dark figure from which it exuded stood there, silent for a moment, Joe felt like the room was empty. And for one brief moment he was alone. But sadly only for a moment. “Surely by now you see that you can end this pain Joseph. Just tell me what I want to hear.”
“I can’t you miserable bastard… I don’t have the answer you’re looking for.” Joe blurted out, along with a mouthful of blood and a piece of his back second molar.
“Oh come now Joseph. I know that’s not true. And while you yet may not. You will…” the voice said, moving menacingly closer. “The pain that I have inflicted on you so far is not nearly the end of what is before you. You may crave desperately for me to finish this endless cycle. For me to at last let those deep wounds heal and scab. But I will not. Every time you think it is over I will tear at the scars and bleed you. And you know why Joseph? Because you will let me..“, the voice gently whispered into his ear. “No I won’t” Joe screamed. “Yes you will. You will because you are too weak to admit to me the only thing that will make me stop,” the voice retorted, its timber for the first betraying its frustration. “Because you so desperately cling to your precious “hope” that what you know deep down in your gut to be true, isn’t. And it’s pathetic!” The voice bellowed, then stopped, pausing to regain its composite. “And so we shall continue this dance, you and I…” it said, in the cold calm tone with which it was accustomed.
A moment later Joe heard the sound of finger nails tapping against plastic. And with a sharp jab into his arm, the voice was gone.
Joe rose from his bed. His eyes blood-shot, cheeks stained with dried tears. His arm throbbing where the needle had pierced his skin. The floor scattered with ripped photographs and the shattered remnants of a mirror. For now the voice was gone.