[ WP ] ( WIN PIZZA for best prompt ) You live up in a world where all people are 'your kind ' - like-minded , and similar to you , for better or worse . Show me around .

I open the door and look around. A few dozen people peer at the door, a slight grin grows on their faces as they realize another brother has come. A soft melody rings in the air when I ask, “ Is that…Franz Schreker? ” “ Of course, we need to drown out that ringing in our ears, it drives us crazy. Schreker, Maher, Wagner. All of our favorites are playing. ” They are all well dressed, silk suits and wool jackets. Combed hair and a polished completion. A warm smile rests on their faces. I know its fake, that ’ s the thing that always bugged you when you where in high school. Why do people always smile, or cry, or laugh? You never felt like they did. Never jealous or upset, happy or sad. That ’ s why you never could keep a relationship, you where different but you didn ’ t know it. How could you? It was always normal to pretend to smile, pretend to be happy. 
 They paint a smile on their faces. A condescending grin that encapsulates them like a mask. One approaches me and shakes my hand. “ It ’ s a pleasure to meet you! ” “ No it isn ’ t, ” I think to myself. “ Why would it be a fucking pleasure? ” The only time I could ever say it was a pleasure to meet someone was 11th grade in Rachel ’ s basement. “ Of course ” is what I actually say. It ’ s what I always say. I always grin and play happy. You look over and see a splendid sight 
 A grand library looms deep into the heart of the building. Grey ’ s anatomy, biology textbooks, I can ’ t help but to grin when I see that beautiful book. I glaze my hand over the words, Kinder und Hausmärchen. I approach a castle and a man takes me down into a vault. Gentle where his footsteps. I felt liberated from the world, like I was able to be me. But it ’ s not the me I pretend to be. No, this is personal. As I continue I can ’ t help but to feel at home. I see pain, destruction, and blood on the walls. A mirror of my true self. I see the butcher shop, my favorite job. The hospital where I had my hand sewn back together, my fondest memory from middle school. Then I see it, the last room. The smell of blood is overbearing. While I ’ m disgusted, I ’ m also happy. Truly at home. Then my heart sank. 
 The door shuts and the light goes out. There he was, in a leather chair. It was…me. Not like me, not resembling me. It was me. He stood up and came a few centimeters from my face. He looks into my eyes and reached into his jacket. He pulls out a knife and smiles. His words I will always remember, “ Are you ready? ” A long pause hung in the air. My heart still as stone, cold and burning. He began to laugh and said in a calm voice, “ Welcome home…welcome…to the darkness. ”
