Dark Side (prolouge) There they were, lying infront of me, on the cold, wooden floor, as dead as the night. Then there was me, alive, holding the knife that the dripping red blood was clinging on to the blade. It was as if the knife itself had been dipped in a can of royal red paint and splattered all over the floor. I think you can pretty much see where i am going with this. Two people, alone in a room. One dead, one alive. One on the floor, the other holding the object that caused them to be on the floor. Yes, I'm a murderer. But i was not the one that did it, if you understand me. It was them, the people in my head. They did it. Not me. Them. They've been there since i was small child. They were never really violent in my youth, but ever since i became an adult, it was like somebody had started a fire and locked the room they were all in. Screaming for help, but no one came. Thats why their souls are bitter and sour. Thats why my soul's bitter and sour. That's what makes me me, and quite frankly, that's also what makes me not want to be me.