Ceasar's Angel

Picture this my love. The white concrete rises up to meet your hightop black converse as you sprint down the sidewalk in the snow. The bitter wind blows the hair back from your face. Your heart is beating so hard in your throat that you feel it might explode. You pass alley after alley, until you finally find one that is particularly dark and threatening. You stop, standing at the entrance contemplating the wisdom, wrestling with your better judgement. You hear a cry somewhere back and do not wait to see what it is, but dive into the alley, skidding to a stop behind a dumpster. Your wrists burn as you trace your fingers down the thin red streaks he left there. Your head is pounding from where he kicked you. Slowly, your pace calms down. You look around you in the dark as your eyes adjust to the night. You peak around your barrier towards the street, and watch as he stares into the dark, but you know he can't see you. He turns and runs on. On all fours, you crawl out from your refuge, and make a break for the exit, panic seizing your heart. You get halfway there, then something stiff catches your foot and you hurl forward into the dirty snow, face first. You leap to your feet and tentatively make your way back to the spot where you tripped. For a moment, your heart stops completely. There, in front of you in the snow, is a corpse, frozen solid. The gray, lifeless face still carries the expression of a wide grin, like that of the Cheshire Cat. You fall against the brick wall, bracing yourself against it for support. You feel the bile rise in your throat, it tastes so bad, god, it tastes so bad. A small sound comes from a few feet away. You look up and see a boy, not much older than you. He is gorgeous, and all you can think is that he must be one of those angels your mother always talked about. He approaches you, but you do not shy away. He bewitches you, everything from the way he stands to the way he speaks. His vivid eyes are prodding into you, and his white hair dances and swirls around his face, as if each strand we itself a member of the russian ballet. He is very close now, and he reaches up and touches your cheek. He is warm, and you lean into his touch. His hand slowly draws up your face and lingers over the gash in your forehead. His eyebrows tense in what you think must be confusion. His hand drops, and he takes hold of your right arm that dangles by your side. Slowly, he pulls up your sleeve to reveal the long gashes around your flesh.
"He shouldn't have done this to you. He had no right."  His words have a tint to them that make you feel as though you have lost your mind, and you can feel insanity seeping in through the cracks in your make believe reality. You nod in response. His hand is on your throat now, tracing patterns across it tenderly with his fingertips. You close you eyes, and when you open them again, everything is red.
you hear noting except him whispering in your ear, "They left you. They never loved you. He had no right. They don't deserve to live, the vermin. You feel him press the hilt of a knife in your hand. "No right." He is holding your hand as your feet move towards the street, dagger in the other palm. "No right." You head towards home with him by your side. The last thing you hear are the screams, but you don't care, because your angel is still there. Caesar's angel still has your hand.
This is your Insanity.