I don't understand.
They whisper to me all the day, and only I can hear them. Everyone thinks I've gone insane. The village doctors say it's a mental illness, the priests say it's something of a spiritual possession.
Be it as it may, they've shunned me from the village. They called me names, people were scared of me. They called me a witch, a demon! All of them. Mother, Father, even my brother's think of me no more than an outcast now. My tears fill the paper as I write to you. You're all I have left, well, I say that, but I'm hardly alone. They've been with me for a week now.
The voices.
My voices?
They sound my own, but they're not. Two of them, subtle, back and forth, over and over like an endless argument of quieted incomprehendable mutterings and they've taken their toll.
I made camp not far from the village. The night air is chilling. The wolves howl and prowl under the grace of the eriee, autumn moonlight. I've never been so terrified in my life. How could they do this to me? My own family! Swat away like a fly at a feast. I cant help but to cry.
I just want to go home.