She was fighting her own demons, her energy lost in a battle that she could never win. She doesn't have it in her to do the most simple things anymore. Socialising? To hell with people. Eating? She's not hungry. Brushing her hair? Eh, nobody cares.

She could have lived her life like that, she suffered from Stockholm Syndrome with her own self. She was trapped in her mind, caged behind the bars, pulling strands and strands of her hair; completely going insane.

She wasn't happy. But she got used to the persistent whispers. "You're not enough," one voice would say.

"Pathetic."

"Unworthy."

"Die alone."

"You only have us."

And yes, she only had them. The voices, they cared for her, right?

"Yes, we do. We are your friends," one whispered. She felt a caress on her tear-wet cheek. She felt the warmth of the phantom hug. The blackness around her seemed even closer now. The disembodied voices coming closer and closer.

Flying over her head and treading behind her. She was their prey, their plaything. They circled around like vultures waiting for the prey to die before diving in for dinner.