Some die looking for a hand to hold.

"It's blood." The words form themselves around my lips with an awkward gravity, "It's blood and it's dripping onto the table." Across the table is Jeremy, smiling sickly and bleeding, "It's blood, Dilks. I wasn't arguing." His accent pierces my ear drums. It's disgusting. It's sexy. He looks at his wrist. Bleeding.
A drop of blood falls back onto the table.
"Fucking Jeremy, clean that shit up. I don't need you cutting yourself and bleeding all over my table."
He doesn't move. Instead he sits there and stares at me with his grey eyes. He shakes the hair from his eyes and flashes a frown, yet never lets his grin falter.
My hand shoots to the left and grabs a napkin, wiping the blood and throwing another at Jeremy in one swift move, "Put it against your wrist. If you're going to hurt yourself at my house, keep it clean."
He looks over at me and stands.
I can see his lips trying to say something.
My mouth says it first.
"I'm not hurting myself. I'm hurting you."
I sound like him.
Just.
Like.
Him.

I shiver a bit and look down at my bleeding wrist.
I'm holding a napkin to it and staring into the mirror.
I keep on mumbling to myself as I bleed and shake.

"It hurts to know that when you tell them where you got the scars, they'll call you insane." He whispers it in my ear.
For a person that never existed outside of my body, I can see him too clearly over my shoulder.
His hand runs along my chest and he kisses my cheek.
His soft limey accent whispers something in latin, and the bleeding stops.

Operor non timeo praecessi subter supter

he fades away, but is nowhere near gone.
His words remain.

Operor non timeo praecessi subter supter
do not be afraid to go underneath.