He hated it. He hated it, he hated it, he hated it. But he had nowhere else to go.

So, he found himself trekking down an empty city street, hands shaking at his sides, blood soaking his clothes and making them stick to his skin. He pushed his hair away from his eyes, praying to whoever was out there that you wouldn't immediately turn him away. Or worse, make fun of him.

He knew this was weird, but he didn't know where else to go, so paying his arch-nemesis a visit had seemed a lot more logical, when he thought it up.

He soon reached the house he knew to be yours. Or, one of many. You had to switch locations a lot, being a criminal and mass murderer.

Approaching the small townhouse, he looked in the window. He could see a sliver of light through the thick curtains. He wasn't sure if that meant you were home or not, but he tried anyway, stumbling up the steps and knocking on the door.

Lightheaded. He was getting lightheaded- and half the blood soaking his clothes and body wasn't even his. He waited, hoping you would answer the door. He didn't know what to say if you did, though, and that was worrying.

Suddenly, the door swung open, basking him in a yellow glow that seemed much too cozy for a home that housed a murderous psychopath. When the light shone down on him, he immediately felt pathetic. God, why had he come here?

"What are you doing here?" He heard you ask, and he looked up, not meeting your eyes. He instead focused on the side of your face, and spoke.

"I didn't know where else to go." Was what he said. It was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and by then, he couldn't pull it back in.