Call me diabolical, but it's always interesting to see how beautiful "horrifying" things sometimes are. The gorgeous shade of red that is blood, the interesting facades that people place over themselves, the sheer power that a person can have over another emotionally and psychologically. 

Recently, I started to self-reflect quite a bit, and while chatting with one of my closest friends, the idea of whether or not we truly every know our "true selves" came up. As a person, you start to recognize that everything you say or do is tailored according to who you are talking to and what circumstances you are in. In fact, the person I am when I am alone changes as well, depending on what emotions I have and what character I want to portray. I, truly, do not know who I am and what makes me me. 

This is a story that revolves around my own musings about image, breaking points, and the human psyche.

WARNING: There will be possible triggers for people related to suicide, character death, and other, similar motifs. I did say that this story revealed to me a more morbid side to myself.