The blood is covering your hands; you can taste it at the side of your lips. You can feel it dripping down, reaching your chin and neck. You don't feel like you anymore. You used to be a boy full of life, laughter – sarcasm.

Now you're a man who doesn't feel anything.

People constantly tell you, "This isn't you."

But if it isn't you, who is it?

You stare at your hands, turning them back and forth, looking at the blood staining your pale skin, darkening at the indents of your hands. The same indents that you and Scott convinced yourselves that they predicted the future. You wonder why they never predicted the blood that would constantly coat you. The blood reaches up to your elbows like ill-fitted gloves.

Your head is spinning. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears and a tiny voice in the back of your head whispers, "Is this how Scott feels?" but then the thought disappears as fast as it came. Your breath comes in quick pants and your head jerks, looking to the images of your father and friends telling you the same thing over and over again: This isn't you.

You want to put your hands to your head and pull at your hair and scream out. This is getting to be too much for you. You can't do this anymore. This shouldn't be happening to you. This shouldn't be happening to anyone. You know that it isn't happening to anyone, only you and it makes you sick. Why are you weak?

You push the door open, ignoring the imprinted marks of blood on the steel door. It will wash off the steel, it will never wash off your hands. You will always have blood on your hands.

You walk into a pristine room. "This isn't you," your best friend says. His voice is muffled and you can't be sure if he's lying. You don't respond to him, instead you stare blankly at him. If it's not you, then who is it? He repeats the words but the sound is no longer attached to his mouth.

Reaching your bloodstained hand out, you move him to the side and stumble to the vanity, looking at yourself in the mirror.

Dark, purple bags circle beneath your eyes. Your skin is pale with a grey tinge. A slight sheen of sweat covers your face, condensing in thick, fat drops near your hairline. Your dark brown eyes are wide and are still teary, like they have been for the past year. You can't remember a time you're your eyes were dry anymore. Your eyes reflect the horrors you've witnessed. The horrors that keep you awake at night, tossing and turning and moaning and whimpering like a small child. The horrors that you constantly see every time you close your eyes, causing you to rip them open again and let out a guttural scream from your throat. The horrors that continuously haunt you. They won't leave you alone.

You look down at your bloody arms again and back to the mirror. The room is white. Everything in the room is white. It is pure, clean – everything that you are not. A low voice grumbles in the back of your head;

This is you.