• i look in the mirror, and see a traitor. i see my worst enemy. i hate their blood, i hate their mind, i hate their appearance, and above all, i hate their eyes. they're a complete scumbag. they're moronic, and stupid, and dumb, and. . . bad.

    i watch them get angry.

    i fix their hair.

    i turn around and head out of the bathroom. on the door is a missing poster, the traitor's face plastered on it. i tear it off, crumple it up. . . and put it in my hoodie's front pocket.

    exit.

    nobody notices me, in this town. i've dyed my hair. i wear contacts. i've changed my clothing style. my name is different.

    you care. you obviously do, or else you wouldn't have called the police. don't worry. i know. you're hysterical. you can't get out of bed in the morning. then again, you never could. at least, that's what you said. it's what depression does to you. it's why i left.

    i should go back. i want to go back. i want to come home, and let you hug me, and then yell at me, and then start to really let things go back to normal.

    i would leave again.

    i'm of legal age.

    but i don't matter. i don't exist anymore. i'm a ghost, a shadow. . . . only a traitor is left. a traitor, that looks like me, but has dyed hair, wears contacts, a different clothing style, and a different name.

    don't worry.

    they're going to send you a letter with good news, regarding me.

    i'm finally free.