The man I loved was no longer present in his eyes. I could no longer feel the love he once held for me in his heart. And when we spoke, it was as if he were a complete stranger. He would mutter complete nonsense about seven people in a tavern, a beautiful angel saving his life, and some man he called The Thespian ruining everything. The more violent and disturbing. On the evening of April 16th, after he had fallen asleep, I decided to take his sketch book into the den and look for any sign of why his behavior had become so peculiar. My discovery paralyzed me with fear.

I did not kill my love. The man that I loved, that I shared my life with, laughed with, cried with, was long gone. No I did not kill him. He killed himself when he allowed the madman inside his head to take control. I spent years watching in silence as his illness spilled onto pages of that damn book. Is it my fault? Was there something I could have done to prevent his descent into insanity? In the end, should I blame him or blame myself? Did he ever think the sketches would take over completely? Did I? No, the man standing, staring blindly into the mirror in front of me is not my love. I said goodbye to him nearly a year ago. If he does still exist somewhere inside of this demented mind; I'll be damned if I can find him. The son of a bitch standing here is the man who killed my love and stole all that I hold dear. He is the crazy bastard who found shelter in the mind of an artist and escaped onto page. The knife that this creature had thought would kill me failed. The very knife that I now hold in my hand.

Written by: ALESANA