Blood is smeared across my skin, splattered on my clothes. My open wounds sting, all the while becoming more painful. I hold, still, the knife that created theses wounds. I force the best smile I can as I hear someone walk near me. They touch my shoulder. I turn around, forcing the smile even more. They saw my face. I could tell. They stepped back with a horrified look on their face, and my painful smile turned to a grimace. I laugh, and it echoes off the walls with a maniacal, ominous sound. They run.

“What’s wrong? I’m no different than before, haven’t you ever noticed?” I say, laughing as I chase them.

They scream for help. Their name doesn’t matter to me, no one’s name ever has. Everyone is the same. They refuse to believe that death is real, that they’ll all fall into it’s clutches eventually.

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