'Run,' the voice in my head snaps at me.
I flinch away from its biting tone, the word slicing into me like a freshly sharpened blade. Every muscle in my body screams at me, willing me to refuse, but I obey. I am weak, just an empty, broken shell, waiting to be filled. The voice controls me, bends my will; it molds me into its own sick, twisted vision of perfection.
My bare feet beat against the ground in a rushed, steady rhythm as I move, my breath coming in short gasps. Loose pebbles wedge themselves into my exposed flesh, the pressure of each step only burying them deeper. Spasms of pain shoot up my legs, burning through me like liquid fire. My body wants me to stop, wants me to rest. But the voice does not. It demands that I ignore the searing pain. So, I do.
I do not know where I am going, the voice did not plant a destination in my head, only a command. The wind is starting to get rough. It pushes against me, only making my assigned task more difficult. My hair is flying around my face, the long, auburn strands blocking my vision as they entangle themselves together in knots. My fingers twitch, wanting nothing more than to run through my thick mane, undoing the wind's masterpiece. The voice does not care for physical appearance, therefore, neither do I. I ball my hands into fists and continue on.
Soon, the voice tells me to halt. I skid to a stop, doing as I am told. Fatigue grips me as I gasp for air, my chest aching. My throat burns feverishly, I feel as if it is going to close. The voice assures me that it will not. My muscles shake violently as I struggle to compose myself as quickly as I possibly can. If it appears that I cannot handle the voice's simple tasks, I will be disposed of. I would be nothing without the voice.
'Turn around,' the voice whispers.
I turn my head, staring back at the long, winding path that I just persevered through. My eyes drift to the origin of the trail, lingering there. Flames lick at the sky, fire consuming the house that had once stood so proudly in that exact spot. My house. The distinct smell of smoke clings to me, a disgusting reminder of what I have done. Tears swell up in my eyes, threatening to spill over onto my pale cheeks.
'Look at what you have done, you miserable fool. Take pride in your artwork and comfort in knowing that you are forever mine,' the voice laughs. Its laughter is unbearable, but it echoes in my head as I glance up at the clouds.
The sky has never looked darker.
