Memories. Oh memories. You prayed for a good one right before you closed your eyes.
But life's a bitch and doesn't really give you what you want.
Screaming. That's all that filled your ears when you first entered the memory. What was different from this memory was that you could see from a first person perspective. You looked down and saw a sharp knife in your hand. Its silver shined in the sunlight. For some sick reason, it made you feel powerful. You didn't like the feeling that it gave you. Not one bit.
You somehow knew that you were high on heroin. You didn't know how you knew. You just kinda knew.
You lowered the knife out an innocent victim. At least, you thought that he was innocent. He looked at you with pleading eyes, begging you not to kill him.
But, for some odd reason, you desired to see him dead.
"Sis, please don't." He pleaded. The knife was dangerously close to his heart. "I beg of you! I was only trying to help you!"
"Shut up!" You said. Except, you couldn't really control what you were saying. "I don't want to hear it anymore."
You forced to watch as you stabbed your brother (you apparently had a brother) and you watched as life left his body.
You woke up screaming. You didn't cry. You didn't want to cry in front of Mark again. You wanted to be strong.
"(Y/N)?" Mark asked, swinging the door open. "What the hell is going on?"
"I-I don't want to talk about it!" You said, hugging your legs and rocking back and forth.
"Did you have another memory?" Mark asked.
"I said that I don't want to talk about it!" You snapped.
"Okay." He said. He shut the door afterwards.
"Was that...really me?" You wondered.