Oh no, here it is again. I need to know when I will fall in decay.

Why do I keep coming back here?
I climb up the porch, heading straight to my old bedroom. As usual, the old Victorian is silent. The air is stale, and everything is still in its state of disrepair and disuse. I flop down on my mattress, sending dust flying everywhere. The walls are covered with my own scribbled handwriting, the words mirroring the haphazard notes in my book. I stare at them blankly, glad to be alone, glad to be away from the influx of strangers that ebb and flow from Tybalt's home. Away from inquiries, and concerned glances.

I roll over onto my stomach, resting my head against the moth-eaten pillow. My clothes still smell faintly of spray paint, which brings a smile to my face. Of all the new (and real) people, Alex seems to be one of the easiest to be around.
Reminds me of Fate.
My smile fades a little. I know Fate was real. I know she was my friend. The ever present fog that muddles my memories prevents me from making any further comparisons between my past teenage friendship, and my present one.

Old friends. Old family.

I feel the comforting press of my notebook against my hip. Comforting, despite the fact that my notes do nothing to confirm or deny what is real.
Like Pyotr. Oh god, that couldn't have been him.
I close my eyes, still seeing the impossibly tall silhouette of the Russian Brujah. Still smelling the scent that told me it really was him. I spoke his name to Tybalt, but left before he could inquire further.
"He can't be back." I laugh aloud at my own spoken words. After all, are I supposed to be dead?

Rolling over again, I gaze up at the ceiling, chewing at my fingernails.
If I was never dead, where are these memories from? 
They're too real, far too real to be hallucinations. The only person to back up my memories is Tommy, and he's proven time and again that his sanity is as unstable as mine. There's Mongrel, but...

I glance towards the mirror that hangs backward on the wall.
If I was never dead, why do I still see her in the mirror, instead of me?
Her image, decayed and radiating every bit of evil I've denied. 
I saw her, every time she mocked me. Every time she pushed me to give in to her. Every time she hurt Mongrel.
Flinching, I look away from the blank frame.
There's no way I would have done those things to him. No matter how much he hurt me. No matter the fact that he left me alone. No matter the fact that he let me die.

My teeth miss the corner of my nail, ripping open a flap of skin on my thumb. I stare at the small bead of blood that wells in the wound, before wiping it on the dirty blanket under me. I know I should go back to Tybalt before he worries. I know, soon enough, he'll start searching for resolution to the questions I won't answer for him. Questions I can't answer for him.

Tired of my own thoughts, I fish my iPod from my pocket, place the headphones in my ears, and attempt to let the music lull me into comfort. I briefly glance at the title of the song that plays, and scoff.
Heaven's A Lie. Irony.