The plague draped in victim’s tears

(By Hella Ahmed) You’re carving your path—trying to become the best version of yourself as a writer—and this thing is constantly, obsessively watching, because it cannot exist without you. Of course you want to beat the shit out of it, grab it and smash it. It’s not a friend, not something you ever wanted in your life. It’s garbage you thought you’d thrown away, yet by some cursed stroke of bad luck it keeps crawling back into your space every time you try to start a fresh day without that poisonous itch staring at you—at your life, at your progress.

It fears what you might become; it hates your success. It attaches itself like a leech, then has the audacity to play the victim, forever whining about being the “good heart” that cannot be rejected or cast out of your spotlight. 

It cries in public about being “abandoned” while picking its scabs in my mentions, begging strangers to kiss the wounds it carved into itself just to stay relevant. The needy—the no-dignity needy—cannot possibly be independent; they are possessed by the perverted compulsion to crawl under your skin. This thing, this body-snatcher, can’t be real, it has nothing solid to build an identity on. 

Stalkers are possessed. They don’t understand boundaries, yet some even dare lecture you about civility when you finally confront them with a firm grip. They are not mentally equipped to accept that you owe them nothing. Not recognition, not love, not a single crumb of what is yours. They went too far, way too far, and that is the entire story. They simply cannot grasp that the world does not revolve around them, and that no means no. There’s no fusion, no possible association, no resemblance, no competition. They lost a long time ago, the day they turned into something insanely sticky.

It wants to chew through my ribs and nest inside the cavity where my future was supposed to grow, warm and safe and close to something alive. 

I am walking in the snow, thinking how beautiful this white ground looks, yet I no longer feel what I used to feel here—those old dreams of a better life in this very land. Now that stalker is attached to me like the plague, everything has to be about them: my life, my writings, my everything. It’s a cancer that never dies; you cut the pieces out and it grows back, degenerate, uglier, more ravenous than before. It’s the kind of creature that licks the plate after you’ve thrown it away and then complains you didn’t cook enough for two.

Let’s leave, I tell myself with every step. Let’s go where no filth can shove its rotten nose into our scenery, let’s build something great far from the sticky leech that keeps trying to drag its slime across every clean page of our life. Let’s heal from the poison. And I know damn well that stalker will try to come back and write over my reality again—because that ignorance cannot survive without my light. It is evil wearing borrowed skin, a shadow with no shame.

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