A/N I know I'm a bad person but hey I'm almost done rewriting the second chapter yayyy

Things changed: -Added picture to the Author's note in the beginning

- Added an accurate "cast" to the book

-Rewrote the entire second chapter, including more backstory and new minor characters.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I remember the feeling clearly— well, the sensation, at least. It's hard to forget it. It happened frequently after I escaped. I'd be alone with just my thoughts. I'd be alone with nothing but thoughts. It was me and thoughts.

It didn't take long until my thoughts became complex, like another individual was trapped inside me. Those thoughts were divided in my conscious, I was the good, they were the bad. At least, that's what I pretended. In reality, I was the good and the bad, myself as two people who constantly fought over control in my body. I was the cop and the robber. I was the therapist and the patient. I played two roles in one body.

At some point, the bad thoughts would finally take over, and the desires would occur. If no one was around to inflict these upon, I took to myself. It stung, but it never really hurt. I didn't notice the pain because the joy from seeing blood rushing and escaping urged me to continue until I was satisfied.

So when I ran to the other room just a few moments ago, I figured it would be the same; but after the thoughts were yelling at me to preform the action, and after I had weakly obeyed, it was different. The pain this time from the cut was greater than the satisfaction in gave me. Upon this realization I dropped the knife and the air touched the tender area I slit. I fumbled around for the toilet paper and wrapped my wrist with it.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I showed my face as a sign that there was no point in hiding any longer. A certain someone will be dead soon, and nobody will care about them anymore.

Sam asked me what I miss most about my old life. My mom? Sure, but she would still be here if I hadn't caused her death. She never should have taken me with her. I was just a nuisance and something to feed. It was because of me that we were in the accident, and because of me that she died. All the doctors focused on me when they should have focused on her. My mom told them to make sure her child lived. I was fine, she was the one who needed help! She was the one in surgery while I waited, alive, with no one but my thoughts. Thoughts and images of being covered in my own blood. Thoughts of her mangled features and cut face bleeding out. Thoughts of the accident. Just me and thoughts.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I place the box down with a huff. Getting lost in your mind really lets your body move on its own sometimes, getting your work done. I look around the room. It's the largest room in the studio with exposed beams. So far I've made a ramp and placed some wood crates around. There is a ladder on the wall next to some beams. Somebody could jump to the ladder, climb up, then hold onto the bar and slide across...

Yes, that will work. What other obstacles could I make...? Perhaps a rope to climb or swing on. I look around the area for a rope. There is plenty of wood, but not too much else. A few tires litter the corner, as well as some buckets of paint I can only assume were left by an artist who previously worked here. I decide to take rope from my supplies— a convenient thing to own as an infamous serial kidnapper.

I return to the room and spot a good place to hang the rope. I steady my arm and get ready to toss up the rope.

I throw it as hard as I can and the rope makes it around the beam and falls back down on the other side.

I tie a loop at the bottom of the rope and feed the rest of the length through it. Finally, I pull it until the knot reached the beam. I test it to make sure it holds my weight. I admire my work and continue.

After an hour or so later, I'm satisfied with my work. I leave the room and walk down the hall. My worn sneakers– at one point white, now coated with dirt– fall against the floor and emit an echoing noise through the building. I pass a few large, wooden sliding doors before I reach the room I'm holding Sam in. I touch its door and feel the texture of the wood under my fingertips. Before I slide it open, I calm my racing heart.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Dust flew up and the light from the hall dimly lit the dark room. Sam's figure sits motionless in the chair, her face gray from the moonlight that seeps in through the wooden bars that cover the windows. Slowly, her head lifts up towards me. She blinks hard and smiles grimly. I enter the room and close the door behind me.

"You didn't turn on an audio book or anything," Sam remarks. "I got pretty bored. I ran out of things to think about forty minutes in. Thoughts aren't exactly the best company."

I snort humorlessly. "You have no idea."

She cocks her head slightly, but doesn't say anything.

"I have something to show you," I say. I walk across the room to a box and retrieve some scissors from it.

"Like what?" she asks, sounding vaguely interested. When she sees me approach with long, sharp scissors, her eyes become dish plates. "What are you doing with that- wait, is that dried bloo--"

I slide the blade against her wrist and she gasps. She forces her eyes shut and clenches her fist. In one, smooth snip, I cut the duct tape from her wrist. Sam opens one eye and notices her free hand. She begins to raise it to her face, only for her elbow to be trapped by the rope tied there. I cut away the rope, then free her other arm. Finally, I cut away the tape around her legs. 

"I'm only doing this because I like you, okay?" I tell her. She nods, though obviously confused.

I back away from her and wait for her to stand up. She doesn't, though, she sits there with her eyes wide. I nod at her, urging her to stand up. Getting the hint, she slowly slides off of the chair and stands up. Her legs shake and are stiff from sitting down for so long. She looks down at her feet and takes in a deep breath.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

"... Yeah."

I take her arm and lead her through the door. We walk in stride down the hall. Our steps echo through the empty building. I can hear the wind blowing through the broken window. Dust flows from the ceiling to the ground. Everything else is quiet. That's when I notice something odd in the atmosphere, some kind of tension. I tighten my grip on Sam's arm. Her pulse is racing. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. Friends trust each other...

... so why is Sam scared?

Suddenly my hand grips the empty space that appears when Sam tears her wrist from my hand. She races down the hall and her feet are heavy against the floor. Air shoots from my lungs as if I had hit a wall and I instinctively chase after her. Her straight hair ripples ahead of me like a golden river. She turns the corner and I run after her. I see her banging on the elevator door, pleading it to open. She turns her head to see me catching up and bolts down the stairs.

My feet fly down the steps two at a time as I pursue her. She's already two flights ahead of me with eight to go. Seeing me catching up, she jumps over the banister and hangs off the outside of it. She hangs off the bottom of it and falls, landing on the end of the next handrail, then jumping off of that, flight by flight. In no time she is at the first floor of the warehouse and I'm on the tenth. I let out a loud scream with my mouth so wide open that my eyes are squinted. My vision turns blurry and I miss a step, tripping down an entire flight.

Breathe in breathe out, breathe in breathe out breath in breath out--

I lie on my side in pain. My back and arm hurt and my legs pulse from the intense abuse. My head fills with unadulterated rage. My mind breaks the flood gates and tightens every vein in my body. I squeeze the pair of scissors still in my hand. My grip is solid, almost hard enough to break the handle. I raise the scissors to my face and eye the blade. I open them as wide as they can go and push hard them against my forearm.

Breathe in and hold.