January 13, 2008
"I'm not who you think I am!" He screeched as he wiped the blood off his porcelain face.
I watched him tear his crimson splattered shirt off his perfectly chiseled chest. I began to shake with fear. Sweat dripped down my palms. "Am I next?" I thought to myself. Last night's spaghetti begins to creep up my throat. I gag and swallow it back down. I try to hold my breath, wishing I would black out so I couldn't have to deal with what might happen. The room spins as horrible thoughts plague my head.
He leaves me, alone, in his bedroom. I look around only to find a picture of myself on the 80's wallpaper. My eyes are scratched out with X's and my mouth is drawn to be sown shut. "Where is he going?" I look in the mirror to fid my clothes torn and my face thrashed. I hear footsteps; he's coming back. "Should I hide?" I scatter into the closet and bury myself in what seems to be a fur coat, my heart ready to explode. I can heart my heart throb; can he? I see him through the crack of the crooked door. He's not even aware that I'm gone. He places a blood-stained knife next to a radio. Music begins to play and a chill runs down my spine. "Is there a reason he's wearing a dress?" Pink daisies and sunflowers twirl around the room. With each twirl, my heart beats faster. "Oh God, I'm going to die."

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