[ CW ] Write a horror story with no gore or death , not even implied .

It's common in horror films to follow the story of a person who is possessed by some sort of eccentric entity. We're allowed a short window of time to experience this roller coaster of adrenaline at the expense of our protagonist, all in order for him or her to triumphantly solve the problem with the help of some sort of expert or old book. 
 
 I've never been a fan of horror films. Not because they scare me for any particular reason. It's quite the opposite actually. You see, I suffer from a type of sickness. A sickness of the mind that some people could relate to the feeling of being possessed by the aforementioned eccentric entity. A voice in my head. A voice belonging to me, but a voice that I commonly refer to as my best friend. This is because he is the only voice with which I have any sort of actual connection. 
 
 We used to get along sometimes. Silent interactions in my head. We'd talk about life, the people around me, my aspirations. It has a dark side though. You see, this friend of mine is hard to predict. Because of this I was told my a doctor that I need medication to give me a little peace and quiet. Things were going fine for a while.... That is, until he woke me up this morning. 
 
 Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis? I'm sure most have, so I'll save the technicalities. This morning however, I was awoken to blinding sunlight coming through the curtain less window in my small bedroom, the closed blinds unable to block small patches of light. As I tried to roll over though, I felt as if I was being held down. 
 
 `` You god damn worthless, lying motherfucker. You are fucking nothing. You belong to me. You can not run from me.'' his deep voice quietly trembled in my ear.'' Panicked, I tried to scream. But nothing came out. Once again I was powerless to this thing. I could feel breath on my ear. I tried to fight it, I tried to do anything. My body would n't let me. I could n't fight for very long. It was too powerful. It's always been too powerful. When I finally succumbed, I awoke once again. Two hours later and I was still on my side, my hands in front of me in the fetal position I was in before. I could physically move once again, but all I could do was break down. I cried in to my pillow. I cried wishing someone could hear me. But there was no one. Like every other morning, I was completely alone. 
 
 The doctors called it a parasite. The preachers called it a demon. All this time I called it my fiend. You may think it's weird to call this thing my friend, but he is all I have. My parents and I are n't close, my friends stopped talking to me long ago. Even my dog wo n't sleep in the same room as me. He is all that I have. He never leaves me. So he is my friend. 
 
 I never really had friends. I always knew that I was a little off, but as a kid I was forced to be around people. It was oddly comforting. Whether it was school or sports or whatever I had to do, I was forced to be around people who made fun of me, who called me names, who told me they would never be my friend even when I most needed someone. There were a few people who tried, but they too eventually ran from me. But I yearned to hear their voices. To feel anything aside from the cold darkness of my solitude. 
 
 My parents do n't speak to me anymore. After dropping out of college and proving myself unfit to take care of myself, they too abandoned me. If it were n't for the voice in my head I would have been gone long ago. When I first heard him he was nice. he told me I would be alright. He told me that no matter what, he'd always be in my life. I needed him, and he was there for me. 
 
 Eventually I found myself needing him too much. I'd close my eyes to look for him. I took things to alter my mind in search for him. To have some kind of interaction. I was already depraved of a person's touch. I could n't handle being depraved from a person's voice. He came to me again. Except this time he was n't as nice as he once was. His voice changed. His thoughts changed. rather than telling me I would be okay now, he told me I did n't deserve to be okay. He told me that I was n't worth the affections of the people I desired so strongly. He told me that I was useless and I was always going to be alone if it were n't for him. That he saved me. That I needed him. That I was lucky I had him. I believed him. 
 
 When I slept, he told me stories about myself. He'd tell me stories about me laying in my bathtub, one of my kitchen knives in my hand. How he'd sit in the mirror watching me, laughing, giddy with excitement as he looked at my pale scrawny body and lifeless eyes. `` Do it,'' he'd tell me. But I never could. I could only get so close before my eyes opened. 
 
 This went on for years. Sometimes he'd tell me that he watched me crash my car and danced around my mangled body to the beat of my cries. Other times he'd make me dinner while I dreamt. He'd serve it to me, bib me, grab my silverware, and watch me choke on the buffet of his pills. 
 
 I never felt any of it though. When I woke up, everything was normal. I'd go to my shitty job, come home, and play video games until i could no longer keep my eyes open. I slept as little as possible. I could n't stand his voice anymore. So I went to the doctor. He prescribed me what they call an SSRI. he told me I was n't weird. I was n't unworthy. He told me I was sick. He told me he could cure me. He told me I did n't have to live with my friend anymore. That I deserved to be, and was capable of being happy. 
 
 As you could probably assume, the pills did n't work. After my friend woke me up this morning, he came to me while I was getting dressed. As I stared into the mirror at myself with my comb running through my hair, my eyes changed. My expression became sinister. A slight grin curled it's way through my lips. I was looking at my own face, but I was not controlling my expressions and I was not controlling my voice. `` Hello, Michael,'' the same deep shaking voice said to me. Except it was real this time. It was my actual voice and not the one I was used to in my head. He put the comb down and he leaned me forward to get a better look at us. With my face merely inches from the mirror, I felt I could see into my own soul. My deep brown eyes sparkling with joy. But it was not my joy. I stared at myself for what felt like hours before it finally talked to me again. `` You really thought you could rid yourself of me. You really thought I was just a parasite a fucking pill could cure? Listen to me, Michael,'' his voice dropped an octave, `` YOU are the fucking parasite. You are the problem. I am the cure. You are the weak. I am the strong. You are worthless, you do n't deserve the air you breathe. You're an empty body. A shell without a purpose. You deserve to be dead. You're a coward. You're not capable of doing ONE good thing for the world. You are mine now. I'm taking over. You can not fight me anymore.'' 
 
 As he was speaking to me, I felt a pain in my side and collapsed to the floor. He finally had me. Like everything else, I was powerless. The pain was enough for me to black out. As I slept though, I finally felt free. I did n't have to fight anymore. He could take over and I could watch from a distance. I did n't have to be lonely. I did n't have to hurt. I felt weightless. Like I could float away from the horrible life I had lived. I saw colors again. I heard music again. My friend had taken me, but finally I was truly free. For the first time I felt the slightest shred of genuine happiness. It was intoxicating. I needed more. I searched for more. I found more. It was endless. I was free. 
 
 Then my eyes opened. I was in my bed. I could n't see anything aside from the blinding sunlight coming through the curtainless window in my small bedroom, the closed blinds unable to block small patches of light. As I tried to roll over though, I felt as if I was being held down.
