Normally enemies, they are united in their concern for you.
“You’ve been so depressed lately,” says your better nature.
“It’s not good for you,” says your worse.
“You haven’t bathed in a week.”
“You haven’t eaten anything but peanut butter.”
“With a spoon,” adds your better nature, and shudders.
“Not to shame you or anything.”
“Oh! No, no, nothing like that. It’s just…”
“…It can’t be good for you.”
“Come out from under the bed.”
“Just for a second.”
“That can’t be comfortable.” You hiss and curl more tightly around the half-empty jar of peanut butter. “Come on, now. Come out and eat something. There’s some pig’s blood in the fridge.”
“Or maybe we can find someone easy. Park benches, alleyways… country roads.”
“Just be safe.”
“We’re worried about you, aren’t we?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
You buried an article of faith in the bottom of the jar years ago. Each bite burns through your stomach like battery acid. If you can’t control the hunger — and you can’t, you’re weak, aren’t you? — you can at least make it hurt. Let that be a lesson to all the many parts of you.