It's late. That's all I know at this point.

I'm sitting in my room, my blonde hair bleached from the sun strewn about my face, my black eyeliner still carefully drawn to a point on my closed eyelids, purple ear buds in my ears, my legs crossed, leaning back on the pillows behind me. Rock music blasts in my ears, I'm trying to drown out the world. My blue eyes are burning from the lack of sleep. My pale pink lips mouth the words to the music as my hands motion to the beat, the guitar, the bass, the drums, the voices.

I've been running for days. The door is finally locked, I can rest for once, maybe enjoy a few seconds of my life.

There are pens strewn about the bed, along with three leather bound journals; each containing a specific purpose. The first one, a page bookmarked temporarily by a fountain pen stuck haphazardly between the pages. There are charts, drawings, and comments written all over the pages. I open it. The page I had bookmarked was the drawing I had made the day I realized who I was, it was of a tattooed girl, aged at about 19 years, possibly 20. Her long red hear covered half of her face and ran down to her hips, her ears marked with at least 3-4 piercings each. There was a small stud in her nose. Her crystal blue eyes stared at me like they were willing me to do something, willing me to become her. A tattoo ran down her spine and across her shoulders, there were various symbols included in this giant marking. She had freckles scattered all over her body, as if the gods themselves had spent all their time placing every single freckle and then carelessly threw the remaining stars that were less brilliant than the ones on her skin into the night sky.

I touched the page carefully, making sure not to smudge her. I had seen her in my dreams many times before, I just never knew who she was until she said my name.

"Kara." She had murmured to me. Then she was gone.

Her voice was mine; she was all I wanted to look like, all I wanted to be. I just couldn't bring myself to dye my hair the insanely captivating red that hers was. That was her trait, not mine. I have four piercings on my left ear, three on my right, a stud in my nose, and the same tattoo that she had in my dream; the one I had drawn. I designed it somehow.

I slammed the journal shut, not wanting to remind myself of what I was running from, why I couldn't become her. I packed up all three of my journals, sweeping up all of my pens in my arms. I kept a sharpie out, drawing designs down my leg as the beat carried my fingers, telling them where to place the ink.

Then I saw the design that I had made, broken glass, shattered souls, flames, blood mixed with paint. All of it drawn on the forearm of a stranger, which was in turn emblazoned on my leg. It showed me who I was, who I still am. Here is what I am running from.

I am eighteen, I should be headed to college soon, but something has happened to the world. The worst part is that it is entirely my fault. School systems collapsed around 3 months ago, governments crashed down soon after. There was utter terror and agony that filled the world for what seemed to me ages.

When I was sixteen I found that I could change my eye color by just willing it to change, I could create designs in my eyes, even shape animals, also change them to inhuman colors. Soon after that I could erase markings on my own skin, even permanent ones; I had three tattoos before this happened, I erased them all. I could close and reopen the piercings on my ears. When I turned seventeen I could see people's thoughts, they were just there, open diaries just begging to be read. I didn't know what was happening to me, but I kept it secret. When I turned eighteen, everything collapsed. The order of the world was destroyed, governments broke down, cities and empires fell. I don't know what I did, but I'm running, they will kill me if I don't.