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Warning: If you are easily disturbed or have any triggers whatsoever, I recommend that you skip this chapter and never look back. I debated about whether or not to include this in the main body of "Video Love" and my doubt won out. If it becomes too much, I encourage you to click away as fast as you can. Please see the story description for a complete list of warnings.

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March 22, 2012 at 11 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

"This place is fudgin' huge!" Preston gasps as he unlocks the door of our hotel room, slowly walking forward and letting the door hit me in his amazement. I use my shoulder to push it open again, grabbing my suitcase and nudging his gym bag into the room with my foot so I can close the door. Leave it to Preston to forget to grab his shit in the hallway. I set our luggage against the cream-colored wall and watch him move stiffly around the massive room, the key card still jutting out horizontally in his hand. He may be almost eighteen now, but he acts like such a five-year-old sometimes, with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide in wonder. He turns around and looks at me, his face frozen in shock at our sheer luck.

"If this is how they apologize, they can screw up my hotel reservations whenever they want to," I joke and he nods, still speechless as he walks down a small set of wide, white stairs to the hot tub laid into the floor, his eyes unable to focus on any one object. I look around at the expensive, lavish suite around us, with the immense canopied bed, expansive entertainment center, and attached living room, wondering how some people can live in such decadence and luxury while so many others survive in poverty and squalor. As beautiful and extravagant as this room is, the thought of spending even three nights here is oddly disturbing to me. Even if I had the means, I would never live like this: wealth changes people in horrendous ways. After all, this has always been Jerome's greatest fear for Mitch, and I would hate to fall into the same trap. "Preston, you're drooling." He turns to look at me again and his gaze falls onto the gargantuan TV in front of the plush bed, his eyes skimming the many cut-outs in the modernesque entertainment center to see which video game consoles they had included.

"They have everything. Just... everything."

"Don't get too wrapped up in the room, Perston. We still have to go to the convention tomorrow, whether or not you want to pull yourself up out of the hot tub." He pouts and walks past me, flopping down on the oversized, square bed and sinking a good twenty centimeters into the mattress. He looks like he is in heaven but I can't help but think how useless all of these things are. Oddly enough, I would be more comfortable at home in my loud, foodless, musty apartment with Procyon and the worn-out couch from my parents' old house. I guess I would rather be 'the Flower Pauper' than 'the Flower King.' Am I just easily pleased, or is there actually something wrong with me?

"I call the bed," he moans as he kicks off his shoes and pretends to make a snow angel in the white, feathery bedspread, his dark hair fanned out around his head in a perfect circle.

"Fine by me." I open up the left side of the walk-in closet and pull out the fold-up bed they had included at the last moment, setting it up against the wall next to the window so I can enjoy the view while I pretend to sleep. I hate to have such a seemingly pessimistic view of the world, but few people realize that what they see as cynicism is simply my reality.

"What's wrong?" Preston asks as he flips over on his stomach and watches me work, his brows slightly furrowed in confusion. "I mean, you can have the bed if you really want it. Or we could share it?" The thought of doing that is so uncomfortable to him that it comes out like a question, and I can't blame him. I just smile and shake my head, slipping my shoes off and climbing onto my miniature bed to look at him.

"This is fine. Don't worry about it." He rolls his eyes and crawls off of his comically large bed to come sit in the armchair next to my cot, his hair still ruffled from his antics.

"Ya know, half the time I can't tell if you're being serious or if you're just being a martyr." I scoff in mock offense and cross my arms, putting on the fake angry face that always makes him smile. Sure enough, he cracks up with a hissing snicker and I start laughing, too.

"I just don't need a lot to be happy. Who do you think I am? Bitchy Mitch?" He bursts out laughing again at the mention of Jerome's newest nickname for his friend, after Mitch had complained about everyone choosing to book rooms in this apparently substandard hotel. In the end, they had ended up with a regular room with two twin beds while Preston and I had been upgraded to their honeymoon suite, after the clerk had forgotten to reserve a room for us. I wish I had gotten a picture of Mitch's face when he heard the news; that face alone is worth the flood of Poofless jokes being posted on Twitter right now.

"Nah, I think one of them's enough. Besides, you hafta have a job to be a diva." I huff and turn to look out the window, pretending to be hurt by his words. I gaze out at the yellow and orange sunlight reflecting off of the buildings all around, the bright light contrasting with the dark dots of birds and people below. I watch the sun begin to set and the yellows turn to pinks, lost in the beauty of the view until I hear a camera shutter behind me.

"If you keep that up, you will have more pictures of me from this trip than you will of you."

"You're more fun to take pictures of." I turn to look at him again and he shrugs, typing something on his phone before he posts the picture online for the world to see. Anyone else would have had a meltdown by now, but he knows it's much harder to make me angry and uses that to his advantage. At least Mom can't complain about me not taking any pictures this time. "What? You do weird stuff naturally and I'm running out of ideas for funny pictures."

"Why are you always such a cactus?"

"Pfft. I'm from Texas, dude. What was I supposed to be? An apple tree?" He makes his 'you should know better' face and finishes his tweet before he sighs and gets to his feet, yawning as he walks over to the entertainment center to peruse the small collection of video games they had sorted by console. He picks one and slides it into the matching machine, grabbing a pair of wireless controllers and bouncing up on the bed. He shuffles up to the padded headboard and settles down in the middle, frowning at me as he pats the spot next to him. "Come here, Rob-a-Dob-Flob. You know you wanna."

"I think I'll pass."

"Please?" He shoots me the biggest, cheesiest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes I have ever seen but I still shake my head. "Senpai plz. Think of the Poofless!" I try not to smile at the corny pout on his face, knowing that if I do I will have to join him on his squishy monstrosity of a bed. As usual, I fail. I give an exaggerated sigh and slowly walk over to the empty spot on the left side, noticing that he has more than half of the bed empty on the other side. Why does he always choose the most awkward place to sit?

"Are you really going to make me play Midnight Club, bro? Are you serious right now?"

"It's a classic! Don't be such a pleb." He drops a controller on my lap and he stares at the cars zooming past on the screen, undoubtedly making plans for the dream car he wants to buy when his ship comes in. "Now no try-harding. It's just for fun."

"Don't tell me that. I'm not the try-hard here." He sticks his tongue out at me and designs a bright red Aston Martin while he jeers at my cerulean blue Land Rover, rubbing at his forehead in mock frustration.

"Get rekt, dude. No way you're gonna beat me with that!"

"No try-harding, Perston. Your words, not mine."

"I didn't mean you shouldn't actually try, though."

"Someone's got a big head, eh? Bring it, Creeper face."

"Oh, we're goin' there now! I'm not scared of you, derp face!"

"O-okay."

"Dad gommit, Rob! Just play the fudging game!" The first race starts and our room falls dead silent except for the revving of the motors of our computer-generated cars. Whenever Preston is concerned, there is no such thing as not being a try-hard. Although his endless thirst for victory can be irritating sometimes, I can relate with my innate drive for perfection. We sit in absolute silence for who knows how long, moving directly from one race to another. After a while, we lose track of who is winning and we start to get sloppier with our gameplay: crashing into streetlights, chasing down pedestrians, hunting each other down.

The sun set long ago and we both have numerous missed notifications on our phones, but we continue to race. Eventually, Preston's car stops moving entirely. I turn toward him and see that he has fallen asleep, his head resting firmly on my shoulder with his fingers still on the buttons. I reach over and carefully take the controller out of his hands before slowly sliding off of the bed to turn off the lights and all of the electronics. He is still sitting upright when I creep back to my own bed, the light from the city below reflecting off of the buildings outside and illuminating his form on the other side of the room. I would say he was cute, but I am not allowed to think things like that, legally or morally. I put my arms back behind my head and stare out the window for a while, taking in the never-ending bustle of San Antonio. I check the time on my phone and see that it is only two in the morning, lunchtime on a typical day at home. I watch the city for a little while longer until I hear Preston gasp in his sleep and jump as if someone had snuck up behind him. I watch him for a few seconds, but he falls quiet again, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. I drift off in my thoughts again and look up at the night sky, and when he hisses again it makes me jump, too.

"Hey, Preston. Are you okay?" He doesn't answer but he continues gasping for breath, his body visibly moving in the faint light. I just sit there for a second, trying to comprehend what is going on.

'Is he having a seizure?' I slowly walk over to the bed and turn the light on, startling him awake. His eyes are wide in terror as he looks down at his right arm, and mine are, too. There is a long, red line running from the crook of his elbow all the way down to the bend in his wrist with perfectly perpendicular dashes crossing through it every few centimeters. While we watch, small droplets of blood begin seeping through the gash, the crimson drops irrevocably staining the snow white bed. As soon as the first drop falls, Preston starts trembling uncontrollably, the movement causing even more blood to run out of the incision.

"R-Rob? What's... happening?" He tears his eyes away from the line and he looks up at me, pleading for me to help him. "Rob, p-please." I snap out of my trance and grab the nearest pillow, ripping the pristine pillowcase along the seams to create a makeshift bandage. I couldn't give less of a shit about this godforsaken hotel room right now; I can pay for damages later.

"Shh, shh, it's alright. Everything is going to be fine. Give me your arm so we can stop the bleeding." He can barely nod as he stares blankly at me, his eyes briefly fixating on the matching scars on my right arm as I wrap the thick cloth around the wound. He is going into shock and I have nothing here that I can use to help him. "I need you to lie down, okay? You are going to lie down and put your feet up until the ambulance gets here." I grab the huge, fluffy pillow I had thrown on the floor and put it down by his feet, crawling up onto the bed to help him move. As soon as I get close enough to put my arm behind his back to maneuver him, he cries out in pain again and curls in on himself, holding his other arm to his chest. "Preston! What happened?"

"Stop! Make it stop!"

"I'm trying, but first you have to tell me what's wrong!" He shakily moves his left arm toward me and holds it out for me to see the identical crisscrossing lines that had been cut into his other arm, and that I had cut into both of mine long ago. A small trail of blood is running down his arm and dripping onto his t-shirt, a slow but steady stream.

"Rob, make it stop," he whimpers, his eyes large and childlike. He seems so small, so young, so innocent right now, shivering in outright terror and trying to curl up to hide from the pain. I have been responsible for taking care of Preston from the beginning, but the weight of that duty has never been heavier than it is right now.

"I will, I will. It looks scary right now, but it isn't very deep. I am going to wrap it up like the other one and call for an ambulance, okay? Do you know what number you call for an ambulance?"

"N-nine-one-one."

"Okay, good. That's the same as it is in Canada. Have you ever been in an ambulance before?" He nods gently, slowly beginning to pull himself back together.

'I need to keep him talking so he doesn't go into shock while I try to figure out what's going on here.'

"When? What happened last time?"

"I f-fell and Dad t-thought I broke my leg." I grab another pillow and start ripping the cover apart along the sides, setting the useless, puffy decoration at the end of the bed.

"Did Daka push you out of a window?" He smiles slightly and I notice he isn't shaking as much as he was a few seconds ago.

"No, Sam was t-trying to teach me how to ride a bike. I got hit by a c-car."

"Ouch. I bet he got in a lot of trouble for that."

"Y-yeah. It's the only time I've ever s-seen him c-cry." I start wrapping the strip of cloth around his arm, doubling it over to soak up more blood just like I used to do with my gauze. "He... he thought he k-killed me. That's what he kept screaming over and... over again."

"Did you break your leg?" He gives a small, nervous laugh as he watches me, his eyes still unfocused and dilated.

"No, but I got a concussion. All I remember is Sam s-screaming and Dad running outside and... kicking the guy's car. When we g-got to the hospital, he started crying, too. Then I started laughing and everyone else thought it was f-funny."

"You always make everyone laugh. That's why you're so good at making videos." He looks up at me, his eyes staring unblinkingly into mine.

"I'm not that good. Not like you and Mitch and Jerome."

"That's bullshit. You are better than me and you know it. You are a natural comedian and you have a way with people, unlike me." I tuck the corner of the cloth into the bottom of the makeshift wrap and wipe my bloody hands on the smooth, silky bedspread. He rolls his eyes weakly and I smile as I dig my phone out of my pocket, doing my best to remain calm for Preston's sake. Now I know how the others felt when they found me passed out in a puddle of my own blood.

'Except Preston is innocent and you were guilty as charged. Imagine how they felt when they found you.' I will never forget the sound of Dad sobbing, or the look on Mitch's face when I came to in the hospital bed. Those moments still haunt me every time I sink back down into the darkness.

'No, I can't afford to think about that right now. I have to help Preston.' I absent-mindedly rest my hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him calm and steady while I call for help. That was the biggest mistake I could have made. As soon as my hand touches him, he lets out a bloodcurdling scream and violently flinches away, the sound and sudden movement causing me to drop my phone.

"Oh, God. Are you okay?" He just keeps screaming, his legs thrashing around in pain. He nearly kicks me in the stomach and I gently block his foot, causing him to wail again and pull his knees up to his chest. I watch in horror as a red line appears where my hand had touched him, the cut slicing right through his sock and causing the fabric around it to pull apart and darken from the steady drops of blood.

'This has to be a nightmare. This doesn't make any sense. I have to wake up, I have to end this.' I try pinching myself several times in vain, knowing that this little strategy had never worked in the past. Preston's scream trails off into a constant whimper, his body trembling more violently than ever. I look down at my hands and see that now I am shaking, too. I raise my forearm up to my mouth and bite down firmly, hoping against hope that the imagined pain would wake me up; it just hurts. I watch the skin on my arm redden and small bubbles of blood rise from the middle four spots, knowing that I am either trapped in this dream or I am trying to escape from reality.

"R-Rob... Help me. Please help me." He is openly sobbing now, smearing streaks of blood from his soaked bandages across his face as he tries to wipe away the tears. This is so real, so believable, so terrifying... This is my worst nightmare in action. I am killing Preston.

"I-I don't know how."

"Please." He carefully sits up and starts to crawl toward me on the bed, barely keeping himself upright from his trembling. I back away from him, my hands brushing up against the giant TV screen. "Please!"

"I don't want to hurt you. Please, don't come any closer."

"Rob, d-don't leave me!" He shakily gets to his feet and stumbles toward me, his eyes so full of fear he almost doesn't look like himself. Seeing the usually cheerful, strong, stoic Preston turned into a bloody, sobbing, defenseless mess hurts me more than seeing my own body being cut to pieces. This is the most horrific thing I can imagine. "Please c-come back!"

"Preston, I... I can't- No!" He falls forward and I instinctively reach out to catch him, but he would have been better off falling to the floor. Everywhere I touch him more thin, red lines appear. He whimpers from the pain but immediately moves closer to me, pressing himself into my chest as if I can somehow protect him from the agony I am inflicting on him. Doesn't he understand that I am the one hurting him?

"Rob, p-please... please help me," he whispers, moving away just enough to look up at me. The flesh on the side of his face has been carved into dozens of tiny triangles and squares, the layers of muscle peeling away in ragged strips to reveal the pearly white bone underneath. "Do something. Say something. Please!" All I can do is shake my head and gently move away from him, backing up closer to the door.

"I-I can't help you. There's... there's nothing I can do. Please, please just stay away." His face is scrunched up as he lets out another sob, breaking down as my betrayal sinks in. Why doesn't he understand that by helping him I am only hurting him more? Why does he keep running back to me?

"You c-can't do this, Rob! You have to help me!" He wobbles on his feet for a few seconds before he starts moving toward me again, stopping in his tracks when he catches sight of himself in the mirror on the closet door. He turns to look at himself and I can see his back clearly: the places where I had touched him to move him on the bed and where I had caught him when he fell have been cut into so many miniscule strips that his flesh looks like ground hamburger. He screams and his hands automatically move up to his face as he tries to prove to himself that what he sees isn't real. More wire-thin lines appear while I watch, and a large chunk of flesh and hair falls to the floor. When I look up at him again, I see that the entire left side of his face is bloody bone and air, only a few fibers of muscle still connected along his hairline. His ear and eyelid are completely gone, and his eye now has a line running across it, drops of red and clear fluid dripping down the remains of his face. "I-I'm dying... Rob, you have to help me. Please help me."

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Preston, I didn't mean to hurt you. I only tried to help..." He is falling apart before my eyes and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The only thing I can do is make it go faster and end his misery. I step forward and throw my arms around him, holding him close while he shudders and sobs against my neck. There is so much blood it feels like I am bathing in it, and I feel hot drops flow over my shoulders and along my back, and down my legs and into my socks. Every molecule of my body is soaked in his blood, and every drop he loses feels like it is coming directly out of my veins. I killed my best friend.

His sobs quickly turn into coughs and he begins to gag on pieces of his own body as he continues to be ripped apart. I slide us down to the ground when he begins to slip away from my grasp, the flesh on his back coming loose in sheets. He is so weak from the blood loss that he has become dead weight, and I find myself morbidly surprised that he hasn't died yet. I can feel his spine and ribcage beneath my fingers, and when he coughs again I can feel his heart pumping against the palm of my hand. It seems like hours have passed when his body finally gives up and stops fighting, and his skeletal remains slump limply against my chest with one final, choking breath. I sit there with him in my arms for what feels like forever, praying to a God I have never believed in that this is just a dream, that I am slowly going insane and that this is all going on inside of my demented, twisted mind. Nothing has ever been this vivid or terrifying, but it can't be real. This can't be real. It can't be real, it just can't.

I gently lay him down on the soft floor in the puddle of congealing blood and melted flesh, and I see that the right side of his face is still intact, still perfect, still flawless. The rest of his body – his skin, his muscle, and even his organs – has turned into a warm, red and black mush spread all across the light, cream-colored carpet. I can't stand to look at it, but I can't look away. His skeleton seems so small compared to me, and I'm reminded once again that he is just a kid. I fell in love with a stupid, naïve, pompous, charismatic, kindhearted seventeen-year-old kid, and then I killed him. I killed him with my bare hands.

"Preston, I-I..." I don't know when I started bawling, but I can't stop. I run my thumb over his cool cheek, feeling the softness of his skin and a few small patches of stubble. He is just a kid. Why did this have to happen to him? Why did sweet, happy-go-lucky, loveable Preston have to die while I get to go on living? Why should I, the broken, psychotic, suicidal, worthless mess be allowed to live longer than someone as whole, happy, loving, and warm as him? I deserved to die, and I still do.

I jump when someone knocks on the door but I ignore it, hoping they will lose interest and leave me here to mourn. I hug my knees to my chest and cover my ears with my arms, trying to block out the noise. There is nothing anybody can do to help him now, not even me. What I wouldn't give to trade places with him right now, to have someone or something carve me up into thousands of little pieces and let me end the pain. What I wouldn't give to be resting in peace on the floor right now, staring up at the tall, white ceiling and seeing heaven. I gently close his eye and wipe the smear of dried blood from his face, trying my best to somehow believe that he is just sleeping, or that I am. How do you cope when living becomes the most painful thing you can imagine? There can only be one answer to that question.

"Yo, Rob! We know you're in there. Slap Pressy awake so we can grab something to eat before the meet-up." I forgot Jerome was at the hotel with us, and Mitch is probably right there next to him. They continue pounding on the door and it brings more anger than fear or relief. The rage builds and builds with every knock, and I feel something snap deep inside of me. They have no business being here: they were never friends with Preston like I was, and they never would have done what I did to save him. They never would have sacrificed their lives, their sanity for him like I did. They never loved him like I did. I won't let them take him away from me, now or ever. "Rob? Preston? Come on, guys. We're running late as it is because a certain someone didn't call to wake us up like he said he would."

"Rob? Are you dead or something, dood?"

"Do you think they went downstairs without us?"

"I doubt it. Are we talking about the same Rob here? He's like fucking clockwork." One of them starts pounding on the door with the palm of his hand, and that noise is even more maddening than their knocking. I can't block them out, I can't make them stop.

'Help me. Please, help me.'

"Guys, this isn't funny anymore. Rob? Can you hear me, dood?" The knocking gets louder and more frantic now, and I am at the edge of my breaking point. They have to stop. Please, make it stop. "Rob? Preston? Please open the door. If you want us to leave, you have to open the door."

"Should I try calling them?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hopefully their room is so big that they just didn't hear us." I see my phone vibrating silently on the floor next to the bed, our group photo from PAX East lighting up the screen. I watch it ring until it goes to the blue voicemail screen, Jerome's smiling Bacca face flashing over and over to show that I had missed his call. "Anything?"

"Nothin'. Let me try Pressy. He always picks up." An obnoxious, generic techno song blasts out of Preston's phone in his pocket, the sound only slightly muffled by the loose, blood-soaked fabric of his jeans. "Shit. They're in there like right next to the door. Either they're fucking with us or..."

"Rob, I mean it. Open the fucking door or we'll break it down." Mitch always has to be the obnoxious, obstinate one. I slowly get to my feet and brush the chunks of cold, sticky flesh from my clothes, moving toward the door. I have to stop them before they wake up everyone on this floor, especially Preston. He doesn't need to know they were ever here. I won't let them take him away from me. They don't deserve him.

"Hey, guys. I'm sorry we didn't hear you earlier. We didn't know you were here until Preston's phone went off," I yell, my voice as calm and even as ever. I plaster a smile on my face like always and prepare to continue the show. I take one last look at Preston's peaceful, still form before I unlock the door and peek out at them, their eyes widening when they see my face. There is no doubt in my mind that my head is covered in blood.

'Look at them. Mitch with that smartass look on his face and Jerome with his ugly fucking hat. They must really think they're something, coming up here to bother us.' Mitch takes a step back from the door, checking behind him to see how far he has to go before he can reach the elevator, and Jerome stares at me blankly, his mouth hanging open and his body frozen in place. If this had been a prank, the video would have gone viral.

"Rob, what the fuck is that?" I follow Mitch's eyes down to my hand and I see a large, bloodstained paring knife clenched tightly in my fist, my knuckles turning white from the pressure. I stare down at it for a second, trying to piece together what was happening. I don't remember finding it, but I have two just like it back at home. How fortunate: now I can use it to protect Preston from these lying, hateful bastards.

"I don't know, Mitch. I don't know where it came from," I answer truthfully, one half of my mind telling me to drop it and run back into the room while the other half says to hold onto it tighter. As usual, the darker half wins the battle.

"Rob, this isn't funny, okay? If you're fucking around with us, you win. You got us good. Now put the knife down and we can talk about how good you got us."

"Do you think I'm crazy, Mitchell? Ouch, man. That really hurts me, right here." I use the point of the sticky knife to beckon to my heart, taking a step forward and watching Mitch take three steps back. I see his eyes dart over to Jerome, who is still standing only about a meter away from me, petrified to the spot. I never thought I would see the day when I overpowered the Bacca.

"Jerome, get the fuck out of there. Come on, biggums. You can't just stand there and watch. This isn't a video game." Mitch eyes me warily as I lean against the doorframe, the knife still clutched tightly in my hand.

'Oh, this is going to be good. Will the famous BajanCanadian step up and save his best friend, or will he make a break for it to save his own ass like Jerome always feared he would? I guess there is only one way to find out.' I take a small step toward Jerome, watching Mitch halfway down the hall. He is the only threat here.

"Jerome, wake up! We have to get out of here. Come on, snap out of it!"

"I think I just pissed myself," Jerome replies, his wide eyes focused on the knife only half a meter away from his stomach.

"Rob, where's Preston?"

"Mitch, this isn't funny anymore," Jerome says, watching me creep closer to him as the full situation finally registers in his brain.

"Rob, tell me where Preston is."

"The joke's over, man. You got us."

"Is he holding the camera for you? Tell me, Rob. I need to know where Preston is."

"He is in our room, Mitch. Where else would he be?" I answer matter-of-factly, watching in satisfaction as Jerome tries to move away from me but only manages to back himself up against the wall by the fire extinguisher.

"You got us good, Woof. Real good. "

"What is he doing in the room? Is he filming this? Is he having a good laugh, too?"

"Don't worry about Preston, Mitch. He's still sleeping like a baby. This is all me." Mitch looks completely helpless, watching in terror as I slide closer to his friend. Jerome slowly inches along the wall toward the elevator, one hand covering his mouth as his face turns pale and green.

'Who doesn't know how to handle pressure now, Jerome? Who is the weak one now?' I lock eyes with him and see that the human part of his brain has shut down entirely; all I see is pure, animalistic fear.

"Rob, we can talk about this. Please dood, just go back to your room and wake Preston up and we can all sit down and talk about this. How does that sound?" I feel the plastic smile fade from my face as I look over at him, his usual smugness replaced by a sober, all-encompassing dread. He knows now. He knows what I did to protect Preston. He came to take him away, just like I knew he would.

"Mitch, please. Please make him stop."

'Stop! Make it stop!' I turn my attention back to Jerome, and as soon as our eyes meet he turns and bolts down the hallway toward Mitch, as if that would save him. If he would have tried this earlier, he might have gotten away. I grab the back of his shirt and yank him backward, watching with pleasure as he falls flat on his back and his atrocious pink and yellow hat flies across the hall. I crouch over him, staring down into his dark, blank eyes, watching him relive his life at the speed of light. He doesn't have the same look in his eyes Preston did – he doesn't love me like Preston does.

"What's wrong, man? I thought you liked the Hunger Games!" I slowly draw back the knife, savoring the look of complete resignation on his face. He knows this game is over.

"Get the fuck away from him!" I get a faceful of crispy hair and cheap body spray as Mitch tackles me down to the floor and tries to wrestle the knife away from me. I might not be as naturally strong as Preston is, but I am running on an entirely new kind of energy now. Nothing can stop me. We struggle for a few seconds before I finally manage to throw him off. He tries to run again but I grab a fistful of his hair and throw him back down, pinning him down and using the very tip of my knife to draw a short, straight line across his left cheek. I have never seen Mitch look less cocky.

"Now would you look at this, Mitchy. I think it's time for the death match to start."

"You have completely lost it, Rob. Look at yourself. What are you doing, dood?"

"I'm not doing anything. You did this. You came up here and tried to take him away from me. You should have known what would happen if you tried to hurt Preston."

"We would never-"

"Liar!" I swipe the tip of the knife across his face, careful not to cut too deep; the fun ends too quickly if you cut too deep. He cries out in pain and I hear the tinkle of breaking glass behind me, but I can't bring myself to look away. His blood is brighter than Preston's was and it flows much easier. This might be the fastest Hunger Games in history. I draw back my knife and prepare to cut into his chest, needing to see if he can die as calmly, slowly, and beautifully as Preston did. Mitch doesn't seem as strong. I can see the knife arcing through the air, aimed directly at the spot between his collar bones. It's so close now I can almost smell that first gush of fresh blood, I can almost hear him scream.

The knife flies out of my hand as I roll off of Mitch, the perfect red and silver blade soaring through the air before it skitters across the floor toward the elevator. Before I can take another breath, I am being pushed over onto my back to stare up at the ceiling, just like Preston. Jerome is hovering above me with tears streaming down his face, his hand swinging a large, bloody shard of glass directly at my chest. I have no desire to stop him. This is all I really wanted. The first cut hurts a thousand times more than my scalpel ever did, but I would endure the pain until the end of time for Preston. I would do anything for him. The second stab hurts just as much as he pierces fresh skin, but I barely feel the third one. The hard glass hits my ribs, the contact sending vibrations through what used to be my chest. The only time it hurts is when it goes all the way through me and cuts through my back. He continues slicing into my body, his face contorted in a feral fury. I laugh, knowing that killing me is going to kill him, too.

"Jerome, stop! You have to stop!" Mitch is trying to hold him back and snatch the glass away from him, but he never had a chance: Jerome is completely out of control.

"Why? Why?!" he yells, his tears dripping down onto my neck and arms as he continues to chop away at me. I feel a genuine smile spread across my face, and the twitch of the muscles in my cheeks is the last thing I feel. I watch him until my vision fades to nothing, knowing that the look of stubborn determination and all-consuming rage on his face will be the last thing I ever see. The end is finally here and the only thing I can do is smile.

'Everything will be perfect now. I can finally be with Preston. No one can take him away from me now.'

"Thank you." The last thing I hear is the sound of Jerome screaming.

----------------

I wake up screaming at the top of my lungs, my eyes darting wildly around my bedroom to find Jerome and his shard of glass. I am alone. I pull my legs up to my chest and curl up into a ball, trying to force myself to come to grips with the situation and pull myself together. My entire body is shaking in terror and a torrent of tears is cascading down my face and neck. I can feel that my shirt and pillow are both soaked, either with tears or sweat. I don't know how long I was crying in my sleep, but I have no illusions that I will be able to stop now. I have lost all of my self-control and I know I must be losing my mind.

Five days. I went five days without sleep this time to try to fight off the dreams filled with blood and death. I thought that starving myself of sleep would put an entire to that repeating nightmare, but it only made it infinitely worse. Watching myself being cut apart and bleeding out seems tame, almost comfortable, compared to what I just experienced. I have never been more terrified or felt more devastated by a dream. Am I going insane? Is that what I truly think about deep inside my mind while I am asleep? Do I subconsciously think about mutilating and murdering my friends? Was I trying to tell myself something about my relationship with Preston? Am I hurting him by being so close to him? But most importantly: am I capable of doing those things if I am pushed too far?

I will be the first one to admit that I need help, and I need it as soon as humanly possible. I can't stop picturing it, I can't stop crying, I can't even move. I am immobilized here in my own mind, trying in vain to fight back hysterical sobs and persuade myself that none of it ever happened. It was so vivid and convincing that it could have almost passed as reality. Now I am not just battling with the guilt and demons from my past, but I am constructing my absolute worst nightmare, and I know that as soon as I close my eyes I will be transported back into that grandiose hotel room with Preston to relive it all again with no memory of past dreams or control of my actions. I need to do something about this to keep it from happening again. I don't know if I can take it. My only defense is to stop sleeping again, but I know that that is only a detrimental, temporary solution. I have to talk to Dr. Theresa about this and put an end to these nightmares before they can somehow get worse.

I can't go out in public. I can't be seen like this and I can't even pull myself back together at home in my bed, let alone while I am trying to drive. I don't trust myself around people so I can't ask Mitch to drive over and escort me to Theresa's office. I am afraid of myself and what I might do. If I am thinking about it in such detail, what is stopping me from doing it? My sobs slowly turn into sniffles, and eventually those dry up, too. I sit there with my chin on my knees and watch the lines cast by the window shift. Time passes but I can't keep track of it anymore. I stare at the reflection of sunlight on the door handle and try to lose myself and forget. When the sun moves and the reflection begins to fade, I hear my phone vibrate on the nightstand and flinch away in terror. My nerves are so frayed that one wrong step is going to send me over the edge again. I try to work up the courage to check the text message, and my hand is still shaking when I reach over to grab it. It takes three tries to type in my password. I see Preston's scowling lava mob pop up on the screen and a sudden wave of relief washes over me. Part of me must have believed that he was truly gone.

Perst<3n: Let me know when youre up so we can record k?

I catch my breath for a few seconds before I reply, knowing already that he is going to be worrying about me. I feel horrible enough already without worrying about him worrying about me. I wish he was as carefree and unattached with me as he is with everyone else. Why do I always have to drag everyone else down to the depths with me?

Me: Hey, I hate to cancel on you but I don't feel well today. I was going to take the day off.

Me: Please don't freak out about it. I just caught a cold on the plane ride back from Cactus Land.

Perst<3n: Are you sure dude? Have you been sleeping enough?

Me: Yes, Dad. If anything I sleep too much. I will make it up to you tomorrow.

Perst<3n: Dont worry about it, just get some rest. See ya later bby.

A small smile breaks through and I close the text message to open up the contacts list on my phone. Although her fee for a house call is going to cut massively into my food budget for the month, I need to talk to Theresa about this and piece myself back together. She knows me too well by now and she always brings a gun with her on home visits, so I know I can't hurt her. With a little luck, she might prescribe me something strong enough to end this cycle of sleep deprivation and terror. I sigh and work up the energy to move from my spot against the headboard to take a shower before I call her, flinching as I move my arm to pull myself up. Along the bottom of my arm are two rows of curved teeth marks, with drops of dried blood trailing from the spots where my four front teeth had bit into the flesh. If I hurt myself just like I did in the dream, how much of that scene would I reenact if the others were with me? I can't afford to find out.