I'm The Killer Who Burned Your Home

The wind whipped my hair around my face, like a noose around my neck. I looked down the side of the building, dangling my feet across the edge. I was three stories up—would this be enough? I didn't do my research; I was impulsive, as impulsive as I was in my sleep, when my other self took control.

I bit my lip. It was true, I loved Jaime. I loved his friends. But that wouldn't stop the demon inside of me. Because I loved my parents, too, and they've been dead almost fourteen years, their blood on my hands. Everyone’s blood on my hands.

Yes, this was necessary. I wouldn't want Jaime's death to be my own doing. I would rather die than live knowing I was a constant threat to his life.

So without another thought, I slowly leant forward into the night. It was like I was flying. I felt, ironically, alive.

Everything was peaceful until I hit the pavement below. I was numb, but also in an excruciating amount of pain. I could already her people screaming from a distance. I thought I heard a recognizable voice in the mix of panic…

"Not high enough..." I moaned to myself before everything went black.

~~

I felt like a new person.

There was no pain, only numbness.

Where was I?

I studied my surroundings carefully when I opened my eyes.

A small cot that I was laying in. An empty bookshelf. A door with a tiny window.

A yellow haze, a familiar smell.

This was definitely not heaven. But it definitely wasn’t hell either.

I punched the cloth next to me, angry at myself for failing.

Was I in a hospital? I looked down on myself, noticing healing bruises and breaks on my body. How long was I asleep for? I felt no pain, but there were no machines or tubes or IV’s or even a sterile smell.

Ah, this was no ordinary hospital. This was a mental hospital. The place where people go if they are prisoners to their own mind. The place where people go when they hurt more mentally than physically. If I couldn't make it to hell yet, well, this was a close second. I wouldn't be happy here, but I would be safe. Safe from myself. Everyone around me would be safe. There was no Drew Sanders, only me, Spencer Martin.

"Spence," I heard Jaime's soft voice from the other side of the door. I peered through the small window. He had a visitors pass, but I was reluctant to let him in.

"Just open the door, please," he begged.

I opened it, and then I returned to the bed and sat quietly.

"There's more to you than this," he said sadly.

"No, there is not," I mumbled. I was just a pyromaniac.

"Yes there is. And I saw that person, I saw that person a lot. You aren't who you think you are," he said, reaching for my hand. I jerked it away, pain striking his face.

"How could you possibly still love me after what you know about me? After what I've done?" I furrowed my eyebrows.

He shook his head. "I... I don't know... It feels right though, and I'm not ready to lose you," he said quietly. I swallowed back the lump in my throat.

"I'm sorry, Jaime, but you have to be ready," I stood up, grabbing his hand, heading towards the door.

"I'm not safe. I'm my safe for myself, and I'm sure as hell not safe for you," I said, opening the door.

"But you can change, I can help you, you can be helped..." He pleaded as I gently pushed him out of the room.

"No, Jaime. I don't want to live like that. You love the Spencer you know in the daytime. You don’t even know the Spencer at night. Hell, I don’t even know the Spencer at night. I don't want you to live like that," I said, partly closing the door on him.

"No, but you're not—"

"Yes, I am Jaime. I am nothing. I am the killer who burned your home."

Notes