[ WP ] The hero and the villain are multiple personalities of the same person .

* “ Who could do this? ” * 
 
 The scene lay before me, a massive attack on the senses. The smell. The sight. The sound. 
 
 Dead quiet, I could hardly hear myself think. I looked down upon the bodies, thrown upon the floor like used napkins, cast aside, like they simply missed the trash can. Her face... A mother, young, perhaps 30, lie upon the floor, her hands tightly clasped around a kitchen knife. 
 
 Her husband, a once-good-looking fellow lie next to her, face down with no shirt and wearing only his boxer briefs. The scene was confusing. 
 
 As I scan the interior for any obvious evidence, I struggle to find a motive, a purpose, a reason these newlyweds had to die. They weren ’ t rich. Their small, one bedroom apartment was sparse. No signs of forced entry. 
 
 * “ Why would someone do this? ” * 
 
 Their daughter, a 6 month old beautiful girl who was so very cherished, was now left parentless, an orphan. I felt for her. I knew what that was like. I wouldn ’ t wish that upon any soul. 
 
 I was called to the scene just after 5AM. A neighbor had called the police about hearing a loud scream. The local PD arrived 10 minutes too late. 
 
 * “ I ’ m gon na find whoever did this. ” * 
 
 I stare at the mother, her face, her body, her hands. She clearly had tried to fight someone off. She looked battered. Her husband had a knife wound to his chest, he tried to help. I look around searching for more clues. No sign of whatever weapon killed the two. 
 
 The kitchen is where it started. The knife block, where the mother grabbed her defensive weapon from, was tipped over, several other knives lay strewn across the floor. The dining room table and chairs are disturbed. Blood drops and smears upon the floor indicate a struggle. The door to the outside patio is cracked open, seemingly opened without force. Perhaps it was unlocked already? 
 
 Hoping for answers, I begin to check every room of the house. Kitchen, living room, bathroom, the bedroom. There must be something. This can ’ t be random. 
 
 “ Hey, I think I found something! ” yells one of our forensic experts from the living room. I walk back and see our CSI photographing the mother ’ s knife. “ Look here, ” he says to me. 
 
 I bend down for a closer look. 
 
 “ What ’ s that look like to you? ” He asks, snapping a few more photos with his DSLR. 
 
 I get on my knees, closer. Blood. A tiny amount is on the edge of the knife. I ’ m relieved. If this was the killer ’ s blood, we might be able to catch the bastard. 
 
 I continue my search of the house. 
 
 After not finding any obvious clues, I start to dig deeper. I find a box in the closet, tucked up on the top shelf in the corner. Inside are photos and some memorabilia; clearly personal effects of the mother. 
 
 I glance through the contents, sifting through the photos, catching a brief glimpse of her happy life up until this point. Her old friends and colleagues, where she went to school, her family and other happy memories are tucked away, but not forgotten; a nice thought on this grim day. 
 
 Suddenly, an old photograph captures my attention. 
 
 I check it twice, three times, four times... 
 
 This picture, I couldn ’ t explain it. It was clearly an older photo, perhaps 5-10 years, and appeared to be taken with a polaroid. The mother is standing there, on what appears to be the top of a mountain, with a beautiful vista behind her. But standing next to her was somebody I didn ’ t expect. 
 
 Me. 
 
 It was me. My face. My smile. My unadulterated, very sublime smiling face. Her arms, wrapped around me, and mine around hers. 
 
 * “ What the fuck is going on? ” * 
 
 I didn ’ t know this woman. I didn ’ t know her husband. I look around. I ’ ve never seen this place before. I look back at the photograph. 
 
 * “ What the fuck is going on? ” * 
 
 Suddenly, the room begins to spin. I can ’ t breathe. The photograph explodes into my mind, and I can see everything around me: a beautiful vista, a clear blue sky that goes on forever, the sweet smell of fresh air, and... candy. 
 
 Candy. I loved that perfume, it was my favorite, it made my mouth water and I craved it. I look to my right. There she is, so beautiful and elegant, the perfect woman for me. Maria, my highschool sweetheart. Dave, one of my best friends, taking a photograph of us. I take it all in: the beautiful view, the tranquil solitude of being the only ones at the top of the mountain, and my beautiful girlfriend... The smell, the sight, the sound. 
 
 Suddenly, I ’ m back in the bedroom, a box of photographs on my lap. I catch my breath. 
 
 * “ What just happened? ” * 
 
 I ’ m dazed, confuzed, and my stomach hurts. I fold up the photo I just jumped into and place it in my pocket. I look down, a red smear is showing my shirt. I stand up and look in the mirror over the bedroom dresser. I stare at my face, the same one from the photograph, then I look down at my shirt. 
 
 * “ What is that? ” * 
 
 I begin to unbutton my shirt as the pain on my stomach becomes more pronounced, something I hadn ’ t noticed until this moment. As I take off my shirt, I ’ m confused. There, on my stomach is a cut, a 6 inch long gash. 
 
 * “ Where did that come from? ” * 
 
 I press it and I bleed more. The wound is fresh but not deep. I go into the bathroom to clean up. As I think about the crime scene and the strange photograph I found, I vow to find whoever did this. I feel something. They didn ’ t deserve this. As I finish clearing up my cut, I adjust my badge and prepare for a press briefing, they would be outside within the hour. 
 
 * “ I will find the one that did this. ” *
