Murder- The walls hiss, calling my name over and over again. I laugh a little as I run faster, the hallways were very long.

Murderer! They kept screaming at me. I did nothing wrong. I do as I'm told. I always do what I'm told to.

MURDER! MURDER! MURDER! Why do the walls yell at me? I run faster, and faster, and faster. The hallways were very long.

I turn a corner. The new walls hiss at me, too. The floors try to grab my feet, to stop me. I almost fell. But I jumped, and ran more. I pick up my feet more, as I run. The floors keep trying to trip me.

The ceiling spits at me. Its spit is very cold. It burns through my clothes, and burns my skin. It's very cold. I keep running, though.

Murderer, murderer- the walls are yelling, but a girl is singing, too. She sings my name, in a pretty voice. She has a pretty voice. Murderer, murderer~

It's hot under this mask. But I need to wear it. I can't show my face. I'm not allowed to. My face is gross. It's burnt and bloody.

Murderer, murderer the girl sings more. She has a very pretty voice. It smells like ash. And burnt flesh. There was fire. There was murder. There was a girl with a pretty voice.

And here, in the hallways. There's the smell of burn. And another awful smell, I don't know what it is. It smells awful.

There's loud walls, that hiss and scream at me. There's floors that try to trip me. There's a ceiling that spits at me. But these things aren't real. I have an active imagination. That's what the lady said to me. I have a very active imagination. I see things that aren't there. I hear things that aren't there. I feel things that aren't there. But they are there, in my world.

But the smells, I know, are there. The burnt smell, and the awful smell. And the girl, I know, is there. Her voice is pretty as she sings my name. I follow her voice, because I don't know where else to go.

There's a knife in my hand. It's very sharp. If you slide your finger across the blade, a red liquid seeps from your finger. I've tried this before. There's a sting, and then a red liquid called 'blood'. It's very painful. I try to imagine how painful it must be, when the blade is stabbed into someone's stomach. It is probably more painful. There's a lot of blood, too. The person stabbed often falls afterward, and then goes to sleep. And then the people nearby call the whole event 'murder'.

And then you, or I, are called a 'murderer'. And then guilt. And then pain. And then you swallow the guilt and pain, and feel it in your stomach. And your stomach turns and makes you nauseous, but you try to forget the feeling.

And then, this happens. I run through the halls. Because I wanted to go for a run. And I'm not allowed to leave the building. So I run in the halls. The halls hate me. The walls hiss and scream 'murderer'. The floors try to trip me. The ceiling spits at me. And it's all fake. It's my active imagination.

And then when my run is over, I usually go off to do another 'murder', because the lady told me to. But today, there's a girl's voice, singing my name. And she has a pretty voice. And she smells like burnt flesh. And I want to see her.

So today, I'm running faster, following her voice, trying to find her. But her voice keeps floating away from me. But I'll keep running, no matter how tired I get, until I find the girl.

And if the lady tells me to, after I've met the girl, I will 'murder' her. Because she thought she could trust me. And if you think you can trust me, that means I have to murder you. Because I'm a murderer. And I'm a traitor.

I'm sorry, I really am, but the lady tells me to. And I always do what I'm told.