Sometimes the things you most wish for are not to be touched.
I shook my head and tried to get the voice out of my brain.
The harder to get the better to have.
Good lord, that was even worse. I didn't need any encouragement here. I was already on the brink of insanity. I clutched my head and spun in circles on the bridge, shaking my hair and getting dizzier and dizzier, hoping that somehow my body would get dizzy enough to fling these voices from my mind.
For days, they had tortured me. It had felt like two angels sat on one shoulder and on the other. I had always thought angels were for the good of mankind, but these ones were giving me a chronic headache.
Or perhaps my conscience was just finally catching up with me. I've never had a conscience; nothing I've done before has bothered me. But suddenly, in the midst of the planning session that comes before organized crime, this small pinprick had begun to work on me, and I realized that I would rather have my arm sliced off and be done with it rather than having it slowly poked, pinched and teased over the days.
If this was what a conscience was like, then it definitely wasn't worth it.
(Ahhh, I have to go to school. What do you think so far? It's just like, a little intro.)
