There I stood, in the middle of the street staring down at my hands. It was a very cold, dark snowy night. The streets were covered in snowflakes and ice, the large pine trees with heavy snow. There were no houses in sight, no buildings in view, just an endless road. I had little on to keep my body from freezing, just a small dirty red coat and a black sweater. The flimsy red scarf around my neck made little attempt to keep me warm as the strong wind blew through my body, nearly blowing me away. But I stood my ground, my dark brown rusty boots stuck to the cold ground, staring at those hands, my hands. They felt cold, shaky, stiff. My hands were as hard as a rock, as rusty as an abandoned house. Covered in old little cuts and scars, bright red bruises and chipped nails. But there was something even more odd that caught my attention. The bright red fresh blood stain on the palm of my hand, so fresh that I could just wipe it off, but it wasn’t me who was bleeding. “What happened? Who’s blood was this?” I asked to myself, although my voice was silenced by the fierce wind. I clutched my hands into an aching fist, shoving them in my fragile coat pockets as I stared at the path of fresh blood leading from down the empty street. “_What have I done now.”_ Was all I could ask myself, but it came out more of a statement than a question or concern, as if I knew this would happen. _“What personality will take over now.”_ I thought to myself as I let out a deep sigh and began following the trail, as if preparing myself for another scene in a movie.