You stalk through the dead of night, wishing in red-hot desperation for someone, something, to save you from your sins. You dart from one deserted location to the next, all the while ducking and hiding in the shadows, in the dark; just anywhere besides out in the open. You can't be seen. Because if you are, someone might realize what a monster you are, and someone might notice how broken up you are on the inside, and someone, pray it not happen, might see how your life was smothered. And someone might see it was your fault.

So you hide. And as dire that want is to be saved, you know you can't be. It's too late for you. Somewhere, somewhere far over the orange-and-yellow kissed horizon, your sun has already set, leaving nothing but darkness and the bitter cold night to comfort you. To you, redemption is only a stranger that is offered to people who haven't fallen as far as you. People who may be coming apart at the seams, but definitely haven't already torn. Well, you're way past the tearing point.

But you don't let it bother you. You still go around with your little mask, talking about this world like it someplace you've been, somewhere you've lived, when the harsh reality is that you've only been placed here, wandering aimlessly around, fortifying your walls and making them bigger- stronger- so no one will be able to get even the slightest sliver of a peek inside.

But the mask comes off after dark. Long nights of yours are the definition of loneliness, because you don't really mind the silence unless it comes with the pitch-black stillness. Stillness that forces you to think about the things locked safely in the crevices of your mind; things you have tried your best to forget. So you don't sleep. You don't turn off the lights, because as far as you're concerned a person creates his or her own nighttime. Your house is always lit, and your heartbreak memories remain untouched, because you never have to think about them. As much as you want all of that to be true, you know it isn't. The black may not show inside your apartment, but not even the illumination of the sun itself could conceal the starless night inside you.

But nonetheless, you make a pact- with yourself and with all those voices in your head that you have learned to love- that you will never do anything ever again besides trying to sift through this thick sand that seems to mire you to your place on this forgotten jungle of an earth. You will never do anything short of running away, hiding, and trying to get out of this rut that holds you back from the rest of humanity. But would the rest of humanity even want you around? You can't come up with an answer, because you don't want to believe it would be no. But it would. Because all you do is bring pain to anything and everything you touch.

And maybe that's what hurts the most. Maybe what hurts the most, more than all the gunshot wounds you've gotten in the field, more than all the battle scars you've obtained through combat, and more than all the slits on your wrists that remind you you're alive, is that you could never have any form of an actual relationship because you're "unstable."

But you hate that word. "Unstable." Even the syllables themselves seem to howl in disgust as the word rolls off of your tongue and into a pool of self-pity and self-loathing. You hate the word because it makes you feel like people look down on you because of your scars, slits, and everything in between. They degrade you because you're broken, because you have cracks, when none of them are even close perfect themselves. But maybe they should judge you.

Because maybe, maybe despite that need in your heart to be accepted, people deserve to be able to see you and say, "Look who screwed up." You know it's true, anyway. You messed up- you made mistakes- horrible, life changing mistakes time and time again- and people should get to look down upon you for that because they are better than you. They are so, so much better.

But of course, no one will say anything to you. No one will judge you, because no one will see you. You are simply invisible to the entire world. You go about you daily life- eating, sleeping, and trying your best to stay away from the little silver blade that calls your name- but no one stops to even mumble the least of these slight "hello"s. But you pretend like it's okay. You pretend like you don't care, and when the pain gets really bad you pretend like you don't notice. And it's worked so far.

It's worked so far, but that's only up until your masquerade stops and the puppeteers go home, and this will happen eventually. And you know that. You know that your charade can only go so far before someone finds out. And the mere thought of all this ending frightens you in a way you could never, ever be able to explain. But it's safe right now, and for now that's enough. That's okay.

But you're not okay. You're a monster, a traitor, a murderer, and a liar. You're broken, shattered, torn beyond repair, and all you can ever even hope to be is a ghost of the life you once lived, and the life you wished you were able to live in place of this hell you're stuck in right now. You can't ever amount to anything, because even if you were able to get yourself out of this rut, through these nightmares, no one will pay any attention to what you had to say. No one.

Or so you think.