The dreams didn't stop coming. The newspapers didn't stop coming. For months, it carried on. He didn't stop killing. Once or twice a week, I would find myself bathed in blood, screaming with ecstasy, plunging a knife into the terrified, struggling man beneath me. Always a man; always a married man. Always I would corrupt him, trying to sob, trying to think of Jane. Always they would let me. I wanted to beg them; fight me! Stop me! Kill me! Take this away. But I couldn't. I'd open my mouth, and nothing would come. Their blood was a poison - a sweet, blissful poison, removing me from myself. Shattering my conscience. Their blood and his eyes.
His eyes. His hollow, empty eyes that filled me, violated me. There was nothing in me apart from the nothingness that came from his eyes. I stayed away from home for longer and longer, until I could barely place her name. Until I could no longer conjure her face. Until I didn't know why I was doing this. Every day was torture, because I wanted to be hurting. I wanted guilt, I wanted anguish. I wanted the real world, but it the more he came to me, the more I drifted away. When I looked back on that night in the cemetery, that was real. When I kissed Jane, it wasn't. I had no emotion to give her; no love, no sorrow. The guilt was gone, no matter how I longed for it, how I yearned for it.
In the absence of a soul, of human emotion, all that remains is a burning need for that which you no longer have. The shadow of the human in you howls in horror at the atrocity masquerading as you.
It was the shadow of the human in my that took up the cold handle of a kitchen knife, and plunged it - ruthless, mercifully - through its heart. The shadow of the human in me let out a hollow sob as my body collapsed in on itself, but I, me, that tells you this story; I felt nothing. No loss, no pain, no regret. I didn't wonder what would happen to Jane. I didn't wonder what the Sorceror would do. I didn't care, but not because I didn't want to. I didn't have the capacity to want to.
And then I got up, and I pulled the knife out of my chest, and the wound healed, and life carried on.
The next night, I awoke once again in the cemetery.
"You know who I am, Myah, my love. Don't you?" he murmured, pressing a burning kiss to the pale skin just below my ear. There was nothing in that world that could make me feel, but this world was the one I was a part of now. With a surge of... nothing, I realized that I did not care about Jane. I turned around to face him.
"I know who you are," I whispered. He was everything - he was God, he was the Devil. He was life, and death. Nature and the supernatural. He was every murder, every rape, every emotion that had torn my life to pieces, that had dragged me to this other world. He was love, he was happiness. He was every single person, and everything in them.
He was kissing me, and I was giving myself to him. He forced what remained of my soul and my humanity out of me as he penetrated me. I had chosen him, this world. Lying beneath him in the greying, dying grass, I knew; there was no going back. I had left that world behind.
"I used to be like you," he said, between heavy breaths.
"I want to be like you," I gasped back.
"My love, you are me."
He finished with me, and faded, and I understood. I understood.
I stood, shakily, and closed my eyes. I felt cold air lash my face... I felt. And then I was standing in the kitchen, watching, as Jane knelt over the body of a girl who looked just like me, a girl I used to be. I touched her hair; she couldn't feel me. I wasn't real. She was screaming, but she sounded as though she was miles away. I faded, and reappeared in a hospital room; this time I was tangible. I took the hand of the boy whose bed I was standing next to, and smiled as he woke up. There was recognition in the Sorceror's eyes as he looked up at me, but he didn't know me. I know you, I thought. I faded again, back to the other world.
I would stay forever here.