The dull drumming, pounding in her head, scratching, clawing its way to the very surface of her being. The voices get louder, the feelings gets stronger. She doesn’t wish for it but she can’t keep the dark feelings at bay. And still there’re not satisfied. . .

Her fingers itch at the sight the trigger. Imagining the weight of the weapon pressing against her palm, to aim and end a life of another to ease her own. They are not her feelings and she doesn’t want them, but they are there none the less at no choice of her own. And still there’re not satisfied. . .

All the chaos flooding through her brain, the screams of men she never touched. The pain she can’t stop. The constant game of hide and seek rushing through her head, her mind trying to break the barrier of reality. And still there’re not satisfied. . .

The cunning edge of the sword or the bold barrel of the gun makes no difference to them. They die just the same. She is there puppet and she has many strings. The yank of any one could be the end of so many. And still there’re not satisfied. . .

The calls from within cannot be silenced until the bidding is done. The sound of blood dripping from there body soothes her mind with every drop. The swing of a sword or a squeeze of the metal, the slight relief at the cost of so much pain for witch she cannot choose. And still there’re not satisfied . . .

They cut and sliced in her brain, turning her into something she is not. Put thoughts and feelings in not of her own, the very thing that drives her mad. The bringer of so much pain and blood, the creator of the dark voices that control her. And still there’re not satisfied. . .

All the killing, anger, sorrow, pain, death, destruction, and chaos at the cost of a sweet, beautiful 17 year old girl. And still there’re not satisfied. . .