VI

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Henrys pov

My name is Henry Vitiello, and I am not a monster.
I would tell myself that every night as a boy. To make me feel better. Like, if i said it enough, i would start believing it.

When I first started finding escapism in books and comics, I had started hurting myself. The way it felt, reading a book and realizing you're not that different from the bad guys in them? To resonate with the misunderstood villain more than the hero of the stroy? To search for books where the villain changes, where they end up resolving their demons, and wishing that I was one of them? That I could one day be understood for my actions?

I realized sooner rather than later that in the real word, here on earth 616, no one cared for your reasoning. No one cared that I was forced, that every kill I had ever made was out of fear. In this world of mine, it's kill or be killed.

And I wasn't allowed to die, so the least I could do was fasten up the process by using vices such as alcohol and nicotine, both I started depending on at a young age. But even now, I am more addicted to the thought of this girl than I am to any other form of vice. And I had a feeling she'd be the most deadly, too.

I would say it's fate that he happened to be there when I went to the valet, but I don't believe in fate. It was an opportunity, one that could and had changed everything. No one was going to see me as misunderstood, and I had long let go of hope of being understood. I was tainted, broken and couldn't be fixed. The damage was already done, so maybe that's why as I stand here carrying Noah Graysons lifeless body that I don't feel bad.

If I can't save my own reputation, I can at the very least try to save hers. Mine might be unsalvageable, but hers isn't. I think I always knew I'd kill for her. This was the first kill that had ever been my choice, but I was already long gone. I've accepted the role as the antagonist in the story, and I felt...fine. Like I was finally playing the role that's been carved out for me.

Janes pov

After Henry leaves, I stare at myself in the mirror. I stare for so long that I realize I don't truly recognize myself. I don't know what, but something has changed. Maybe my eyes look wider? Or my nose pointer? Or maybe its my cheekbones, they look a little sharper. I stare and stare until I realize that one by one, my features are changing. Then my eyes snag onto the scenery, and the room looks tilted. The painting behind me is unfamiliar. I could've sworn the woman wasn't smiling before. I shake my head and take a few deep breaths.

And this time when I look in the bathroom mirror, my reflection smiles at me. Except I'm not smiling at all. I splash water on my face a few times, and look up once more. I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane.

I look up, and this time, it's not even me. Shoulder length black hair replaces where my long brown hair should be. Dante stares back at me. The lights in the bathroom flicker, turning dimmer and dimmer. Dante's reflection smiles at me and I step back, shutting my eyes. My head is pounding. It's okay. My hands shouldn't be shaking.This isn't real. Just like the ouija board isn't real. I'm just stressed. Dante is dead. This is nothing. I saw him die. Why is breathing getting harder? There's no way he's here. I'm okay. I'm just tired. This isn't real. This isnt real this isnt real this isnt real this cant be real.

I grab paper towels and wet them, wetting my face once more. Wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up. Maybe I should start taking my antipsychotics, maybe I should start listening to my therapist. Why do I hesitate to trust her even after all these years?

When I hear laughter on the other side of the door, my eyes shoot open. I look in the mirror, and I see me staring back. No short black hair, no male face, no amber eyes. Jane. I see myself staring back, not a dead boy. My own reflection. The way it should be. But then it smiles a sad smile at me and says, in my voice, "What have you done?"

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