Nobody believes him when he says that he's dangerous. Danger is taken so lightly, a ghost story, a fibber's delight. It's only too late. The closet is too full to hide in; not that anyone sees him coming.

It means nothing to see a man with your own eyes anymore.

They act as though they can see straight through him, translucent and placid. It makes him want to scream, to take what's left of his heart and hollow it out into a sound that they can't ignore.

I'm right under your nose. Right under your eyes. Right under your bed.

He's a coward, too afraid to sacrifice his own blood to satisfy the cravings of those that lie dead due to his faults. Anyone's blood will do; it's all the same. It all stains.

I'm bleeding for you, now. Everything we've done for each other is lost in time, now.

Part of him is still the same. He still likes to get into their heads, to step on the conscience of a victim until it needs treatment and then relieve the pain. Of course, his own conscience has long since retired in search for a more suitable host.

He's the magic man; his words get him crowds, and his crowds arouse his hatred. His hatred fuels his revenge, though he doesn't quite know whom he's seeking vengeance on.

Not space.

The cycle of his days is a trope for everything he regrets not doing, it's the salvation that he looks to when he can see the past too clearly for his own good. It's sacrilegious to deny the bloodlust that fills his memories.

He's the reason that you lock the doors behind you and then unlock them for fear of what you've caged yourself in with.

He's a ghost story.

Time.


A/N:

Yay chapter three? This is for xxeviexx because she got the last prompt. 'Cemetery Drive' by My Chemical Romance. I thought it was pretty obvious. This one is even more obvious . . . Although I'm not sure the band is too well known . . . The first and second italic lines should help. Eve's not allowed to guess, because I was talking to her about this song yesterday ;)

Thanks to my beta, hopelily, for fixing all of the mistakes that I make. Grammar tends to elude me when I write; possibly because I write at one o'clock in the morning . . .

So, shall I continue?

The next one will be for whoever guess the song that this is based off of, as always. By the way, exactly 300 words. Do you see a pattern? Well, I don't.