Identity

The tile floor felt cold against his cheek. Why was he lying on the ground? Where was he for that matter?
His head felt fuzzy. He started to get up, which may have been a bad idea.
He grabbed onto the sink to help steady himself.

He looked into the mirror and wondered who this guy was looking back at him.
All he could remember was a woman’s voice saying: “A man can’t know where he is going if
he doesn’t know who he is.”
Looking down at his hands, he saw that his knuckles were bloody.
Clearly he had used his fists, but what for? He looked up into the mirror again and
noticed that his eyes were not like they should be.
The irises had yellow rings.
What the hell was going on? Who was he? What was he doing here?

He had to find out.

He ran to the door. “Damn” he thought as he realized it was locked.
He started banging on it, calling for help. No answer.
It seemed like he was banging for hours. He was so mad. He started punching the door.
The old wounds stung as smalls streams of blood ran down his arms and droplets of
blood started splattered on the tile floor like tiny red confetti.
The pain got more and more intense, that’s when he snapped. His eyes went completely yellow and
he howled in pain. He ripped the door off its hinges and ran into the hall.

Blood, blood everywhere. From the corner of his eye he saw her.
This woman held a special place in his heart, but her body was slashed,
her blood on the walls and the floor. He knelt down beside her,
stroked her hair as the memories flooded back. He had done this. It was her fault
always telling him he was not good enough. Pushing him.
Who cared if he didn’t have plans for his future? He didn’t, but she was always pushing always nagging.

He was done, he had killed her. Didn’t even regret it.
This was who he was now. Finally he knew who he was.
He spat on her body and whispered: “Guess I know where I’m going now”