'I don't want to feel like him. I don't want to...!'
Blake stared down at his hands.
They didn't look right. They were far too small.
'Am I hallucinating...?!'
The fingers looked distorted beneath his gaze, almost swollen in some places and impossibly thin in others.
Dirt seemed to cling beneath his nails, dark and stubborn. There were streaks of something red across his palms, running between his fingers like dried blood that refused to disappear.
He rubbed his hands together, but nothing changed.
Then, he tried scratching at them hard, his nails dragging across his skin until it stung.
'I don't want to feel like him.'
His breathing became uneven.
'If only I could get rid of him.'
The thought came suddenly.
So suddenly that Blake stopped scratching.
For a moment, he simply stared at his hands.
Then, something strange rose inside him.
It wasn't anger or sadness.
