He is someone else.
Become one who has pulled the trigger and used the knife, fed the poison.
Become a stranger you would recognize and scorn, a stranger in skin that is not unknown, nor caring.
He has no expression as he looks into a mirror, and his mind is cold.
Moments have eroded parts of who he was, and he is breaking. Cracking inside, where no one can see it.
Sometimes, he's barely aware of it.
And it's as if there's frost in his veins, for all the warmth he holds in his odd, now-familiar frozen body. There's a winter icing over the world he's crafted, and he can scarcely bring himself to care.
His dreams are mad things, memories mixed in with nightmares intersected with twisted, unreal illusions that he wishes to erase and fails because they always come back when he sleeps. And in those unlit moments his brilliance crawls across his mind in a writhing mess in which he wakes, and abruptly scrambles to shove it all away.
The taste of iron and depravity sits ill upon his tongue.
There are days where he doesn't bother to reach for sanity. What use is it to him? What good has it done?
And so he watches with his uncaring eyes as the world around him is consumed and burned into black ashes by sickened flames.
He waits, and he schemes and he becomes someone else once more. Then he shuts down the seconds after he's pitched painfully into wakefulness, returning to where he doesn't have to feel himself be devoured by what he can never forget and what he can never remember in its madness and its shame.
He has become what others would deem a monster. He is mad and twisted and pushed into becoming warped and he is a broken mirror without any cracks.
And if the shattered reflection bleeds melted glass, he doesn't care.
He doesn't care, at all.