Pansy gazed down at her hands as if they were someone else’s, her eyes wide with panic and confusion. Foreign blood ran down her wrists, a dark crimson.

She sits with her knees to her chest, huddled up in the supply room of the mental hospital, hurried steps of faculty echoing through the halls. They’re looking for her — for what she did.

She looks down at the bloodied shard of mirror on the floor, the reflection showing a psychotic grin, not of Pansy, but of you. Her face contorts with despair and anger, her eyes filling with tears.

“W-What did you do??” She utters shakily, glaring at her other self.