Life is like the thread, you see. Alone and unaffected it is a small and insignificant thing. Wound tightly enough, life inflicts pain, draws blood, and chokes out it own very existence.

They don’t understand that. No one does. I watch, though they think I only float. I see their secrets in this place of white-washed walls and scrubbed out souls. They don’t see me, not the real me, only I can see that; I see that in the blood.

The blood stops dripping but not before its made a splattered mosaic down my front. I would smile if I could, for their reactions and machinations are so amusing. But I don’t smile; that would be giving in to all of this. That would let them steal my soul.

I hide the thread in the special place, where I keep the other things, the things I need. They would only take it, as they and others like them have taken everything else important. But no one can take what they can’t touch. They can’t touch me. I am a ghost. I am a shell. I am the destroyer.