His thoughts continued to pilfer towards the deranged. It started out simply, the want to reach out for a simple drop of blood. To be so enticed by something that he had seen so many times before, it shouldn't have bothered him. But there it was, giving him a mix of thoughts over how it would feel between his own fingers, how it might taste. To be able to watch more of it drip from a mangled body. It was a difficult direction to shake himself from, as he hadn't at first realized exactly what he was doing. The thought patterns, the helplessness, it was all there. It sent a panic through his own body, through his own blood and bone. He worried about what this would mean, if anyone would be safe. Michael knew that he could control the thoughts and actions of others. Mesmerism. Look at the, speak it, make it so. How easy would it be to simply make someone follow him? To do harm to them without as much of a fight before they even realize just what was about to happen to them?

All of this was enough to send him rushing home. Who would be safe, who could be safe? Was there a way to lock him inside the confines of his own apartment? Chain himself down and keep him from these thoughts, these daydreams of running a knife down a chest after running it over their throat? Watching it all bubble out from the gaping holes and mouth? To watch someone silently plead to nothing but vacancy or delight in what was happening? To fill the tub with warm blood and bathe in it? To allow it to welcome him home like the warm embrace of a mother?

Sitting in the middle of his living room floor, knees to his chest, hands digging into his dark hair, Michael struggled between forcing his eyes open and closed. There was no way to remove himself from the visions, the wants of his own mind. The plague that called to him. Rocking back and forth, all he could do was hope for it to end. He had tried everything else that he could think of, but the mesmerism didn't work on himself. This want, this need, it was too strong. His eyes kept turning towards the front door. Turning himself away from it, he felt as if he had garnered dual personalities. Speaking to himself in ways he had never done himself. Whispers of a mad man trying to decide which path he should take.

Work had been long since called off. The heat had been turned on, going higher than he had meant it to. Michael had ignored it beyond trying to turn it on last night, barely able to concentrate on the actual buttons and setting it at nearly 80 degrees. His body was warm, too warm, blood pounding through his veins, giving him a different sort of rush. He didn't want to hurt himself though, no, that wouldn't give him the satisfaction that he was looking for here. Tugging at his hair, it felt like a never ending cycle.

"This isn't me. This isn't me. This isn't me." he chanted. "But it is me. This is who I am now. This is what I need to let in. There's only so long I can hold this back like this." Forcing deep breaths, he didn't even feel the tears well up in his eyes. And if he were to ask himself, in that moment, what they were over, if he had realized it? He couldn't really answer. It would be over complete delight and happiness or an indescribable fear that overwhelmed him now.

"Monster doesn't mean killer. Monster doesn't mean maniac. Monster doesn't mean destruction." Shaking his head, his hands drops to his knees, as he laughed. "It means all of those things and more. Worse things. Why else would people hate and fear them?"

Panic continued to shock through his entire being, even as he tried to believe something he didn't really. "I'm stronger than this." Those words were spoken slowly, the certainty in them melted as fast as they were spoken. "No, no, you are not, Michael."

"I'm smarter than this. I can figure a way out of this. I can fix me." He just had to think straight. Think about something other than going into work and making them all jump off the building, one by one. To send one person in with a knife or a gun and watch it all act out in front of him like a scene in a film. To send the streets into chaos, people running over people, car accidents, bad calls. The blood that would be dripping then, flowing through the fabrics and streets. Blood he could feed off of, play in, dance around in and enjoy to its fullest stake.

"This. Is. Not. Me." Anger began to build up, but it was nothing in compared to the fear. He had watched his greatest fears come to life, in memories. This, however, was worse. It was so much worse. It wasn't him. It couldn't be. As many times as Michael had hoped for cruelty among others, it wasn't in this way. It didn't actually include someone losing their life, let alone by his hands. He wasn't a murderer.

For as much as he tried, as hard as he fought, come nightfall Michael was exhausted. Lying on the floor, he stared at the far wall, an empty shell of what he was days ago. Moving slowly, that hunger was still there, but he picked himself up. On his feet, he put his boots on, set with his next actions. A white shirt, jeans, a hoodie. Not even bothering with his own keys, he was out the door.