He is me. And I am him.
Whenever I awaken, new blood stains my pale, white hands.
Our pale, white hands.
As I come to my senses, I try and recall anything I can. What brought me here? Where is here?
Am I really myself right now? Or is this another of his sick illusions?
Screaming is useless. I am alone. He always was good at covering his tracks; he would never allow someone to find him guilty of anything. Not when he has a perfectly weak, innocent host to cover for him.
I raise myself up on trembling legs, and I stumble in what I hope is the right direction towards home. At first, the carnage surrounding me would have made me break down completely.
He made me stronger than that.
Instead, I can force myself to regain my strength, carry myself forward as I wait.
I wait in the same way as him, as he lurks in the shadows, smirking in the darkness as he locks on to his next prey. I wait for him to find the next target, the next pawn in his game.
I wait to relinquish control yet again, as the monster with my name stares on with deathly cold eyes.
Eventually, inevitably, the time will come when I hear those ever-familiar words, uttered in that smooth, deep voice that could force even the strongest-willed human to bend to his will.
The time has come, host. Sleep, and allow me to take over.
And so I retreat into myself yet again, no longer confident enough to argue against it.
My soul. His soul. Sharing mind and body alike, with only one question existing.
Which of us is real? Me? Or the monster?