There’s this ghost in the attic, and he’s surprisingly a rather pleasant fellow. He’s helped me find lost things and has talked me through a few rough times as well. Yet there has always been something off putting about it all. Every time he helped me, my hair would turn just a shade redder. Now though my hair is crimson and my eyes burn with fire, and my heart a holds a terrible yearning. I am not who I used to be. I used to be kind, not a bit cruel. Now I am my demons. Now that ghost in the attic is free, that ghost that got me through. And what awesome fate is this, to be free, chained only to this single truth: that there is no ghost, that my hair is not crimson, there’s just me, with a killer in his head. That there’s just me, who learned that taking what I wanted to replace what I lost, that to blame those that hurt me and hurt them back,, were the right things to do. And sometimes… sometimes I hurt them first. I am crimson at heart.

( I might write more, but I don’t think so 🤷‍♂️ )