Life Imagined

[Pharaoh]

People who find out about me, oftentimes from my own brash anger, tell me that I am not real. They tell me that there is no reason for me, no existence for me other than as an imagined phenomena. For some reason, people have a hard time of pushing the reality through their thick skulls.

I know nothing else than the inside of a mind. Know nothing other the furious rage that often fills me with the daggers of aggression. I've been brutally guiltless and have unthinkingly destroyed a human's ability to think rationally. I revel in the ability to screw with her mind at my whim; I am a sadistic artist, with the mind as my canvas.

My life is scarred with vicious fury and scathing honesty. I have the ability to manipulate emotions, thoughts and actions, both directly and indirectly. There is an army of voices at my disposal, figures cast in shadows to play on paranoia, voices to keep the mind from processing thoughts.

It's really no wonder I hate everything when you take into account the pummeling of the mind. It's constantly telling me to leave, to die, to kill myself, that no one likes me, that I should have never existed, that there is no one in the world who would ever fucking care about me. And, it's true. I know when the mind is lying to me. And, none of those thoughts are lies.

[Pharaoh]

I'm in a body that does not belong to me now. The collapse forced me into control, but I don't want it. It isn't my life to live, and I feel like a thief, stealing herself from her without a sound. I'm always going to feel her there, a little ball on the edge of a cataclysmic breakdown, but I can't reach her.

There's nothing to do for me, but to live her life the way she would have wanted, but I'll never have her approval. The only person I love is gone, the boy who's mind he helps the reason for her collapse.

I lost my best friend for her to still be here, sobbing and curled up from the pain of the loss. She gave herself to make sure the body would be okay. To make sure her mind would be ready when he decides to take her again by the hand. I think she died in vain, I think that it's over. Painfully and endlessly over.

I don't want the body anymore. I don't have him anymore. I gave him up for her, to make sure they could be together, and now I have nothing. It was all taken with torturous agony from my curled fists. I don't think I can live her life as well as she could. I don't know what to do, how to react, what to think. The mind is clouded now, and will always have a film of pain layering the reason. Everything she did was for him, and I don't know if i can live up to that.

[mctootsie]

Nice. Your word choice and sentence structure allow the reader to feel almost as they are being chopped up inside, as you describe (you use harsh words and varied sentence lengths.)

I know nothing else than the inside of a mind. Know nothing other the furious rage that often fills me with the daggers of aggression. I've been brutally guiltless and have unthinkingly destroyed a human's ability to think rationally. I revel in the ability to screw with her mind at my whim; I am a sadistic artist, with the mind as my canvas.

It would seem your mind is your paintbrush, and She (more on her later) is your canvas who you destroy. The mind is not your canvas, it is your powertool.

Also, it gets very confusing as to who She is. I understand the ambiguity is part of it, but it is very unclear what has just happened, and thus hard to relate too. maybe drop more small hints via word choice as to what exactly happened. Did she die? Did she donate a kidney?
ok it would seem that yes, she donated some organ and then died. maybe use more clinical adjectives to convey this meaning more, how sterile you feel banking off of her now dead soul/body.

i think you could expand on the notions of being trapped in your mind, and what a dark place that is, as well as how exactly that relates to Her. The transition is a little unclear. Maybe write that She is all you can think about?

[Pharaoh]

There is no way to explain my existence. No scientific words to trip over my tongue, no proof that I am a real being. I am a nobody, an alter left to rot in the realm between reality and imagination, a carpenter, trying desperately to nail in the boards of the mind that hates me.

It has been tugging at my patience, tearing the shreds of tranquility I have scrounged upon request. The only thing I have now is a former boyfriend that loves me, but is not allowed to be with me. The boss told him so, struck him down regardless of the hollow pain that will forever be pounding alongside my thoughts.

My job is to keep her mentality in tact, to make certain that she is not stabbed too deeply by any words, not scarred too badly by a tragedy outside of her control. I am not motivated to do my job. I feel no pressure from my duties to help someone that hates me. Never have I felt the urge to help her, only his pleads an unquestionable reason to do what I should have always been doing.

My name is Rem, and I exist in a mind that wants nothing more than to hear me screaming with agony, watch as I am mutilated beyond recognition and smile as the pain steals my sanity. I have kept her alive, commandeered her body before she could swallow all the pills or tighten the belt too much. She owes me everything, but I want nothing.

[electricbazooka]

Originally Posted by Pharaoh

People who find out about me, oftentimes from my own brash anger, tell me that I am not real. They tell me that there is no reason for me, no existence for me other than as an imagined phenomena. For some reason, people have a hard time of pushing the reality through their thick skulls.

I know nothing else than the inside of a mind. Know nothing other the furious rage that often fills me with the daggers of aggression. I've been brutally guiltless and have unthinkingly destroyed a human's ability to think rationally. I revel in the ability to screw with her mind at my whim; I am a sadistic artist, with the mind as my canvas.

My life is scarred with vicious fury and scathing honesty. I have the ability to manipulate emotions, thoughts and actions, both directly and indirectly. There is an army of voices at my disposal, figures cast in shadows to play on paranoia, voices to keep the mind from processing thoughts.

It's really no wonder I hate everything when you take into account the pummeling of the mind. It's constantly telling me to leave, to die, to kill myself, that no one likes me, that I should have never existed, that there is no one in the world who would ever fucking care about me. And, it's true. I know when the mind is lying to me. And, none of those thoughts are lies.

I love the way this was written. Sadistic artist? Well there's another more clinical phraseology for what you describe: narcissistic dissociative disorder with a hint of psychopathy. But who cares as least you can write well