Who do I belong with?

Chapter 8

Jack's pov.

Y/n opened the music box. Once she opened the box her expression changed from nervous to shock. Her eyes started to tremble and then water. She then fell to the ground. Vincent and Scott fell to her aid.
Mark walked toward the music box, while Jeremy hid in the corner. Mark's eyes started to tear up. I started to walk toward the box baring myself to what or who was inside. I looked inside to see a child. A girl, at least I think it was. I honestly couldn't tell, because it's organs were ripped out. At the bottom of the box was at least and inch of fresh blood.
Part of me feels bad for the girl. The half feels satisfied that she was put out her misery.
What the hell? Why am I think like this. I shouldn't be thinking this.
Well at least it wasn't Mike.

Vincent's POV

Damn it...they found her.

I had to hide her somehow, so I dumped her corpse into the music box. Although I didn't gut her. I only killed her...

Mike's POV

I'm cold.. my eyes began to open when I realised that I had been shot. I couldn't move. Well I could, but it would cause a great amount of pain.
I had been seated in a chair. I look around to see a mirror. A giant mirror at that. I looked even closer to see a figure standing in the mirror. The figure seemed to have pale white skin and some facial hair. It wore a black and dark green sweatshirt and black skinny jeans along with black shoes. By now I've realized that the figure is male. He look kind of cute to be honest.

The most eerie part about him is that one eye was white/blue and the other was black/green. By now I was struggling to get free. Ignoring the pain.

My surroundings were dark and menacing. I looked back at to mirror to see the figure gone. I frantically look around to find him, ignoring the pain I'm in. I try to scream out when someone covers my mouth. His words are gentle.

Ỹ̵̡̫̠̺͉͍̣͘̕͟͠͞͠ͅo̢̨͎̬̺͚̽̈͂̐̑̄̈̽͜͟͡ư̛̬͇̜͇͍͗̆̽̓̓͘͡ w͈̗̦͎̉̄̍̆̋̈́͛̏̔͟i̶̢̻̫̻͖̞̙͕̙̫̓̓̒͊͘͘͝l̬̝͖̼͎̫̲͂̾̀̿̊̓̽̏͢͡ļ̴̛̖̭̣͇͉͉͔͇͐͛͗͑͂̀̏̂ b͓̲͖͕̯̟̹͖́̽̋̋̊̽̿́̾ȇ̛̱̞̖̭̋̓̄̆̃̾̉͋͜ͅͅ f̥̳͔͈̅̌̄̃̇͋̇̋͜r̢͚̪̜͎̥͓͚̒̒͋̋̾̔̂͘ę̹̜̝̣̟͔̀͒̀́́̌̐ę̥̙͓͖̊̃͂͋̌̽̎̃͆͠ s̵̛̗̭̲̲̖͔̆́́̇̋̚ơ͔̖̟̰͕̆̓̑͆ͅơ̳̖̪̮̳̺̋̋̔̂̅̌͘͟͟͝͡n̷̨̢̲͍͇̲̗͕̟͌̾͋̿̽̄̚̕ ę̶̫̺̳̥͚͔͖̔͒͛̔͊̕̚̚n̴̪̠̮̙̪̬̼̄͐́͒͗͛̀̒͘o̵̧̢̯͍̤̰̫̬̪̣̔͆͒̔̔̌̅͘̕u̵̡̨̫̭̙͔̪͚̙̘̎̽̀̓̇̐̋̀͡g̛̛͖̤͇͉̳̣̉̈́̉̚̚͞͠h͓̥̺͍̞̜̳̯̄̋̓̀͛̈̐͆̋́͟.̵̧̙̩̟͖̝̟̤͐̂̈́͒͑̇͗́͞͡ J̸̨̧̥̝̖̯̩͍͋̈̊̇̽͋ǘ̵̹̮͈̤̗͕̥̿́̇̆̎̔ŝ͎̟͖͓͕͉̒̌̇̽̚͠͝t̨̤̜̟͙͇̗͇͍̃̿̎̑͒̿́͂͘͘ w̢͇̯̲͇͎͕̃̓̋́̒͐̿̑͢͢͡͞ḁ̡̱̹͖̦̮̓̉̑̓͒͆̿͒̕͟t̡̥̯̘̖̩̦̦̋̌̋̃̓̽̌͆͆̚͟c̛͚̯͍͉̘̘̮̼̘̤̉͛̾̐̈́̈̚͠h̘̻͙͍̰͍̙̟̬͊̑̉͒͐̊̅̚̕͜.̟̺̬͔̉͒̄̾̌̏̐͜͠.̸̨͖̞̱̠͈̝̠̘̬́͋͗͌̚.̛̰̗̖̭̦̻̝͉̠́̐̾͜͠͝͡
.
.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.
.
H̡͍͓͉͉̙̺͕̝̰̽́̈́̉͊́̎̚ë̶̡̼̼͎̮̽̈͐̅̓̄̅͂ļ̸̫̥̥̼̯̳͊̐̑̔̽̇̿̅̽̚l̥̭̲̟̬̗̇͊̑͋̆̀̄͟͠o̴̢̲̜͍̣̬̖̱̲͛͗̄͗̽ A̸̳͕̲̹̬̅̐̎̈́̔̚g̘͚̤̠̰̞͒͆̄̑̚͢͞͝ȃ̼̜͎̦̥̘̔͊͌̀͆͛͢͠i̴̡̪͚͚̙͐̆̂̓̀̽͋̈̌͆n̢̡͇̻͇͕̟̟̼̘̈́̀̎̂̚̕͘͞.̨͔͖̥̺͕̺͌̓̌̽̀͒̍̅̄̏͟.̵̨̨͖̟͇͎̯̲̙̌̄̄̓̊̇.̷̨̛͈̙̪̗̻̞̟̍̏͒̈͊͊͊͘͢

.
.