I'm sitting across from you at a little round table. There are dark shadows under my eyes, an alarming feature on my ashen face. The ragged tips of my hair are dyed black. My hands are on the table, clenched tightly, knuckles white. You stare.



And I stare back.



"Please don't," you say.



I grit my teeth. "This is my choice."



"Why did you become this?" You press on. I can clearly hear the desperation, the exasperation in your voice, and I hate it.



"This?" I hiss, gesturing to my body. Tattoos adorn my arms from my shoulders to my fingertips. A red lattice pattern can be seen on my right cheek, spreading from my jaw to my temple. I'm wearing black. You hate how I wear black, and I know it. You hate what I have become.



"Yes, that. Why would you take this path?" You say in disgust. I'm gripping the edge of the table. My black nails dig into the wood.



"This is my choice."



"No. It wasn't. It was theirs. You were so beautiful..."



"I'm ME! Why can't you accept ME? I think I'm beautiful, they think I'm beautiful!" I'm trying hard to stay under control, but crimson rage is beginning to peek out from beneath my veil of black. I get to my feet and pound of the table with a fist. You cower.



"Don't cower!" I scream. "I'm not a monster, I'm me, I'm me, beautiful, ugly me!"



"You're changed," you murmur. Tears are streaming down your face. Hot, pink, wet. "You're different."



"I'm the same! I'm the same! This is who I was all along!"



Vermilion dots are popping in front of my eyes. My body tenses, and I grit my teeth and scream, roar, growl, and I hate you. I kick the table. It falls on top of you.



Your body is sprawled on the floor.



You hit your head on the ground hard.



Blood.



But there are still signs of life. The tears are still streaming, every breath is a shuddering sob.



"Please, please, no," you mumble through the wetness in your mouth. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."



I don't hear you. I'm walking away into the nothingness of myself.