Your Own Worst Enemy

Miranda is the daughter of one of the most famous actresses in the world, but her life is far from fabulous. The girls at school bully her mercilessly. Yet that is not her worst problem. Adnarim, a malevolent spirit, follows her around, and embodies the people who put her down. But who is Adnarim? And how will Miranda ever learn to stand up to the real bullies when she can't even battle her worst enemy: herself. EDIT: In case anyone is wondering, Witzelsucht is a rare illness where a patient makes inappropriate puns or jokes at bad times. The sufferers finds these jokes amusing despite this.


1. Your

            "You're such a pathetic loser, Miranda," Rosie says, and all her friends jeer, obviously happy to be putting me down. I walk away from them, fast, wanting to be alone.

           But I'm not. She is watching me. She moves when I move, blinks when I blink. But she speaks when I’m silent.

            “You don’t belong here,” she says. “You’re worthless. Useless.”

            Her mouth is down-turned into a frown and the features I know so well are twisted to the point where they are almost unrecognisable. Nothing she says is new. Half the girls at school ignore me, the others laugh at me and talk behind my back. How can Miranda be the daughter of the most famous actress in the world? Look at her. So fat, so ugly. She doesn’t deserve any of the stuff she has. She can’t do anything.

            And the worst part is? It’s true. I can’t run, I can’t sing, I can’t dance. My grades are rubbish and any day I’m sure someone will cotton onto the fact that I don’t have doctor appointments in the middle of the day, most days of the week. Sometimes I can’t face their taunts, their laughter, their stony silence, so I convince the receptionist I have Witzelsucht.  I don’t know what that is, but the security guard winces every time I mention it, and flashes me a sympathetic smile.

            The only person who is nice to me is the security guard, and I exploit him. I’m pathetic.

            “Yes you are,” she agrees.

            Her name is Adnarim. Well, she didn't come with a name, so I christened her Adnarim. I wanted an obvious connection between us. That way I could pretend that I'm nothing to her, that she chooses me because of her name, not because I deserve to be bullied.  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and she does the same, mimicking me, mocking me.

            “Look,” she says. “I can even tuck hair away better than you can.”

            No one notices her. She appeared three years ago, when we first moved to Hollywood. Whenever people dodge round me, they walk straight through her. My logic says she isn’t there. But my brain knows different.

            She is alive, she is real. How do I know? Because Adnarim is my worst enemy

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