Massacre.

Is it safe to say that I don’t feel like myself anymore? That I don’t know who. . . or what I am.

And I’m fucking terrified but so, so angry. . . and I’m tired. . .

I’m tired of this feeling in my chest. It weighs me down and it feels like I can’t breathe. My stomach won’t stop churning and I want to throw up. I think I tried once or twice but nothing will come up, so now I have to suppress my gags because throwing up nothing is painful.

I’m so done with this.

I hate feeling like a caged animal.

I hate sitting in this room, one meant to house a hysteric soul while it awaits to speak to Reaper. The walls, ceiling, and floor are white, making it so bright that it hurts to have my eyes open. When I do manage to crack an eye open, I can see something wavering on the surface, a glimpse of a rainbow, the magic that is suppose to contain me.

Angers starts to bubble up in me, and I know a tantrum is coming. It breaks through immediately, animalistic cries erupting from my mouth. They get louder and louder and the black tendrils slowly start to reach out, away from and attempt to penetrate the barrier. Each time they jab themselves though, they're harshly shoved back and it hurts. Even though the pain hits me, I can’t help but desperately try to claw through the magic.

This room is making me go insane.

And then it dawns on me. . . what if I am left here forever?

That’s when I give it my all.

Now I'm crying and I sound like a torture animal but my current situation is torturous to me.

What happened to the way things were? Why can’t we just go back? Why did I have to be such a brat and demand so much more from Reaper?

. . . now he doesn’t love me. . .

. . . no. . . he never loved me. . .

It hits me in waves. . .the pain from all the hurt.

The rejection.

The hatred.

The way I feel worthless.

“WOULD YOU JUST FUCKING SHUT UP!”

It’s Reaper.

The room shakes as the door opens and the shock has shut me up the way he asked. It feels like the whole house is vibrating.

I look at him, a relieving sight of black clothes after seeing nothing but white.

But Reaper doesn’t look like himself. His usually styled hair is disheveled, as if he’s been raking his fingers through it for hours. He has horrible bags under his eyes and he hasn’t shaved in what seems like days.

How long have I been stuck in this room?

Rage takes over again and I’m sending some tendrils his way but Reaper is quick to keep me at bay. His own tendrils are pushing mine back and he’s rushing over to me.

His hand grips my shoulder and that’s when a brawl breaks out again. I’m trying to burn him like I did last time but it’s harder because I’m tangled in my own shirt.

The fight is over before it can even escalate because I find my torso aching, skin stinging, my body thrown across the room.

My shirt is in Reaper’s hands and he’s snarling at me.

“Just give it up already Massacre.
Stop acting like a fucking child.
You want to know why pining after me is fucking pointless.
Because look at that-” Reaper yells and points at me.

I look down, at the tattoo on my chest that looks as if it wants to rip out of my flesh. It’s pulsing, the lines wishing to move, the skin around it red and raw.

“Fucking look at me, Masscre! Fucking look at me!”

My head snaps up, and my eyes land on Reaper.

Reaper who no longer looks like himself. Reaper who is worn out, on his last wits end and is borderline going insane, like me.

Except, unlike me his torso is bare, milky white skin. I know I’ve seen it countless times before so I don’t understand what the significance means.

“That mark on you Massacre. . . that's not some pretty little ink. . .” he’s seething with rage, I can feel my body sinking into itself. His dominance over me is crushing.

“. . . that’s a mating mark Massacre. . . and when you’re mated to someone they have the same mark on them, and in case you haven't realized yet, I don’t fucking have one. . . you don’t fucking belong to me. . .”

I shut down as realization hits me.

Who?

Who’s done this to me?

Who do I belong to?