PLAY THE VIDEO ABOVE.

Standing in the foyer, the dark red on my hands fills my mind with color. The brown rug below me reads "Welcome to Our Home". I can hear the shrill screams painfully strike through my ears as I subconsciously travel to the base of the steps where I pick up the crumpled note. My lips mouth the words "I'm sorry" but the sounds don't come out, or maybe they are just strongly overpowered by the longing pleads for help. My eyes scatter around the room of my home and fall across the silhouettes. Four of them lay dispersed on the hardwood floors. They are no longer black shadows, but white outlines.

As I concentrate on one of the silhouettes lying beside the bottom stair, the white lines start to define themselves. Dark red colors stain the white figure as a faint storm of colors slowly fades in. As tan, brown, red, and blue sink into the face of the outline, I stare at the small body of my five-year-old brother. Ian Raven. He lays in a pool of crimson red blood I can't seem to locate the origin of which it's coming from. His curly brown hair is ruffled on the top of his head and his soft hands are folded into tiny fists. His eyes are green like Jen's, but they almost seem colorless. Perhaps, colorless is the wrong word. Lifeless. They seem lifeless.

Jerking up in broad fear of the dream, a sharp pain shoots through my wrists. My eyes frantically search to figure out what caused the unfamiliar pain and they grow wide as I notice the metal pair of handcuffs that lock me to the railing of the new hospital bed.

I anxiously look around hoping maybe Jen would be sitting in the navy blue chair in the corner wearing her blue diamond earrings as she holds the string of my balloon and enjoys the classical music that fills the air. But all I see is emptiness. There is no chair, or balloon, or radio on the window. There's just a hollow emptiness caged in with gray walls. I didn't realize I would miss the white walls the most. The grey ones that replace them are sinister in the worst way. They are a cold grey identical to the one in the eyes of my picture.

A cold drop of sweat rolls down the side of my cheek as the memories flood my mind impatiently. The dream replays in my mind as I desperately blink my eyes trying to rid myself of the image. I don't want to remember, but the memories are back. I can no longer rid myself of the identity. Any chance of a new life has been ripped away from me by no one other than myself.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a doorknob twisting and a lock clicking. A young man with bold brown eyes and curly brown hair enters the grey-boxed room. His fingers flick his pen against the side of his clipboard as he observes me.

"Who are you?" I ask, being the first to break the silence.

"Me? I'm your new caretaker, but that doesn't really matter. I think the more important question is who are you?" The confident young man asks without blinking an eye. "Can you remember who you are?" He cocks an eyebrow, continuing to hit his pen against the board.

My eyes fall from his as I sink back into the bed, cringing as the handcuffs squeeze my wrists with the movement. I deserve the pain I feel. I deserve to spend the rest of my life rotting in a grey room. With my newly-remembered identity, I can no longer crave a life where I can create a new one.

"I'm Micah Raven. I murdered my family, and my eyes are blue."