Is it still suicide if the person you’ve become is a stranger? If the life you are ending is no longer yours anyway, the body you destroy so alien from the one you knew that you can barely comprehend its hungers and desires? This man who speaks with my voice, who grasps with my hands and traces with my tongue, he isn’t me. He is an interloper; a trespasser; a changeling. He must be destroyed. There isn’t room enough for both of us inside one body and mind, and I am too exhausted to continue the constant struggle for temporary supremacy. If I cannot numb this parasite to impotence with alcohol and drugs or bind him with loathing and bury him in denial, then I am forced to take more drastic action. I won’t suffer his presence any longer. I won’t let him twist me into this perverted monster. No more. I will end this. I will destroy him. If I have to spill my own blood to slay this beast once and for all, so be it. We’ll go down together.