Prologue

Where am I? What's happening?

Something must have poisoned me.

My heart is slamming against my rib cage and demanding to be released. My hands are shivering and weeping for an unknown cause. My head is pulsing, about to explode. My mind has been filled with static that screams and laughs so loud it hurts.

A broken bathroom mirror lies at my feet and I cautiously look into it.

Someone who looks like me is crying. Someone who has cried so much that no matter how many times they blink or rub their eyes, they stay bloodshot. On their trembling lips is a sad, twisted smile that can only laugh or cry out. They haven't brushed their hair -it's a blond, greasy mess that sticks up wildly in all directions in almost triangular shaped points. Ugly. It couldn't possibly be me.

But what caught me off guard wasn't their appearance, it was their clothes and hands. They were fairly sticky with dark brown splotches and a few fresh red ones.

Blood. It's blood. There's no mistaking it.

How did you know?

Someone is mouthing in perfect sync. "Whose is it?" They demand. "Whose blood is this? You know, don't you? It wouldn't be a surprise. After all, it's not the first, is it?"

How did you know?

No - it wasn't the first. It wasn't the first, or the second, or the third, or the fourth. Each stain belongs to someone else. But they deserved it, didn't they? Stealing. Bewitching. Prying what belonged to me and only me out of my hands with promises of friendship and affection. Don't you understand?

They nod - yes, it all makes sense now. "It wasn't your fault they had to die. You were carrying out a much needed punishment. Stepping stone so you could get to it. What you wanted. What you deserved to have."

"Mine. Mine, mine, mine."

Who was 'it' again? Or is 'it' a 'they'? My mind is fuzzy. I can't think or remember anything, it's too much. I need to sit down, lie down, something. My legs tremble for the last time before dying on me and I sink to the ground, tears sliding down my cheeks. What am I crying for? What's going on?

"Mine. You are mine."

Who? Who belonged to me? I had no one. I've been through everything you could recall from a typical sob story: I had fake friends, a fake family, and fake feelings. I cared for no one and no one genuinely cared for me. So who? Who did I have?

Stop playing dumb.

I never had someone, but I was close. Yes, I remember – I was so tantalizingly close. I could hear his laughter and see his wide eyes. I loved those eyes. Where have they gone? Why aren't they here? Where is he? Did he go somewhere?

I want to be where he is.

Behind you, Arthur. The room reeks of death.

No. It's impossible. I would never hurt him - never. Even when he made me so angry with his lies and his stubbornness, I didn't hate him. Even when I saw him pressed up against those girls while smiling, laughing, and touching, I didn't hate him. Even when he said horrible things to me, I didn't hate him. How could I possibly hate him? He was perfect. Despite his flaws, he was still perfect. He was my true love. I loved him. I love him.

I love him and he was going to be mine no matter what. It was wonderful when I finally rid of all the distractions – wonderful. It was that time where he looked at me and only me. Why would I destroy such a happy ending? It's impossible.

Behind you, Arthur.

I don't believe it. Every part of my mind is desperate for some other explanation, any other solution. I am blind to what I refuse to believe is the truth.

It's impossible. It's not true. I love him. I won't turn around. I won't do it.

Even though one memory is leading to another, I won't accept it. Someone is crying and their tears are landing on me.

Look behind you.

Someone turns around for me and tells me what they see.

"It's a boy."

He looks like snow white with his ghostly pale skin and the way he lies peacefully on an old mattress. If his lips were red instead of a soft blue, it would be an almost perfect replica. Just imagining those full lips makes me want to kiss them. Maybe his shut eyelids - one of them stained purple - would flutter open.

His shirt is ripped in various places and the knees of his jeans are ripped and dusted white. It would be a beautiful scene if it wasn't for the slit on his throat, the cuts on his arms, and the exposed, bruised section of his stomach. A now dark red bloodstain has soaked into the mattress – he must have wounds on his back too. They didn't forget to mention that he was tied up either. A perfect knot that was obviously practiced.

It was a kidnapping. A murder.

I'm quiet. Is that it? That's it, isn't it? Then it couldn't possibly be him. So why were they shivering and crying? Weak. I laugh at him and he laughs back at me.

Stop playing dumb.

I sit by the body and smile. The boy must have been handsome, tall, and just a bit soft in the stomach that only gave him a childish and cute factor. But he isn't my true love. He couldn't be. He doesn't have those beautiful eyes.

Someone wonders why I killed him. They wonder why he deserved it.

"Why? Why can't you love me? I would do anything for you."

Why do I feel so warm and cold at the same time? Why do my fingers tremble when I stroke his cheek? Why am I touching him? I'm insane. I'm going insane.

Look at his eyes.

I swallow something - a rock, perhaps - and it smashes everything inside me on its way to my stomach. The static is gone and was replaced with hot air that makes me light headed and dizzy. But why? He's not my love.

I lift his eyelid and choke.

Blue.

Alfred Jones has beautiful blue eyes, doesn't he?

It's what you liked the most about him. It's the first thing that you saw that day.

Do you remember?

Remember, Arthur Kirkland.

Remember why you killed the boy you love.