Bowser

What do I have to do?

The question seeps like a broken sore in my brain.  That cold fear returns, and with it a sense of inevitability.  An answer sneers out of the darkness, like a ghost that lurks in the shadows, waiting to rush out when I turn my back.  "Nothing," it says, "You know this is hopeless.  You're a joke.  You're not worth a damn, and you never were."

It ain't the answer I want, but it's the only one that makes any goddamn sense.

Peach