He was in a fit of rage. He just murdered his two friends. Belch and Victor. You were the last one he needed to kill. He was angry. Very angry. He had also just killed his father. His abusive deadbeat father.

Once he found you, he rushed up, a bloody six inch switchblade clutched in his palm. He was breathing heavily, blood splattered on his arms, hands, neck, face, hair, chest, just everywhere. Not his blood.

Your lips trembled in fear as he came up, pointing the knife towards you.

“So, do I look like him? Do I look like HIM?”

He was referring to his father that he just murdered. The person he tried so hard not to be. Yet he replicated the shitty things he does so well.