This is for Wattpad Contests Whodunit.

My character is Alistair Alvarez, the Addict.

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Alistair's fingers twitched, and he shoved them in his coat pocket. He was shivering. He was inside, and he was shivering. Because- because he was cold, because-

His fingers twitched again, and he clenched them, trying to make them still, but he could never be still, couldn't hold still, couldn't stop, could never stop-

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and pressed the fingertips against his forehead, the nails digging into his skull, biting into the skin. His mind couldn't stop, either. His mind never stopped. It was always jumping, hopping-

Someone had been murdered. It was odd in a way. Odd in a way because it didn't feel altogether that odd at all. He supposed he should care, should be sad, should be afraid, but he couldn't, because sadness required reflection, and reflection required peace, and peace required moments where he could just sit still and-

Delilah. Delilah Black.

Black, night, window, crack-

Crack.

His fingers twitched.

He needed to, he needed to-

No, he couldn't, not now. He'd been so good lately, hadn't he? And besides, Delilah was dead and that was all good and fine but it wouldn't stop there, would it? They'd want someone to blame. Everybody always wanted someone to blame.

Of course they'd suspect him. Of course. Even as he remained hunkered down in the corner of a bathtub, cheap shower curtain pulled to hide himself, to give himself some semblance of nonexistence, to give his eyes less strain because when they were open he always had to see to look to observe everything to see everything-

The windows didn't shut all the way. The gaps let in frigid air. It was why nobody else seemed to come up to this wing of the mansion. It kept people away. It drew Alistair in.

He shivered once more, shoulders striking against the crumbling tile. Wondered how long he had been here. Couldn't remember.

He knew they'd want to know what he knew, but he knew that once he told them, he would be useless. He had nothing with which to bargain. And the others - no one would stand up for him. No one trusted him. No one ever had.

He didn't trust himself. His mind betrayed him just as frequently as others did.

Alistair began biting at his nails. A thin layer of dust and particles belonging to crumbled shower tile had coated his fingers but he didn't care. The grainy texture scraped against his teeth as he bit down harder, the particles grinding against the decaying enamel.

A familiar feeling of lightheadedness, of weightlessness, of floating for a moment, just a moment-

Followed by the crushing return of gravity and a small trickle of blood.

Alistair swiped at the skin beneath his nose, pulling his hand away to stare at  the watery blood that now coated the top of his index finger.

Blood, red, rose, lily-

Lily Cox. She was another guest here. She was odd. Unsettling. Standing on the very edge of sanity but maybe sitting just on the brink of something else, something unknown, something incomprehensible. It made Alistair nervous. He lived on the edge of sanity, and he didn't like the idea of having a roommate.

He'd seen her last night, though. With one of the others. The cook. He didn't like her. She was very direct. He'd known people like that. He didn't know them anymore. They always got in the way, in his way, with their good intentions and moral obligations and meddling habits and their constant obsession with trying to fix people who didn't want or need fixing. He just wanted everyone to leave him alone-

Horse. Cook, meat, horse, Pegasus-

Pegasus.

He couldn't remember if she was a good cook. Food was necessary, and that was it. Sometimes he ate, sometimes he didn't. The food disappeared or it didn't. He thought he'd eaten last night but he couldn't remember. Probably. Everyone had been quiet for once. It had been nice for once. He'd probably eaten.

On the other side of the shower curtain, the light above the sink flickered, and the shadows changed, unfurling and shifting, consuming space and light.

He wondered if anyone would find him here. He hoped not. But he was beginning to grow tired. Tired, or cold. They were interchangeable in his mind. But even as his body began to submit to drowsiness, his hands still shook, his index finger flicking blood across the dirty porcelain. Sometimes it was too much, existing in a normal plane of reality, during one of the rare times when his mind was his own and there wasn't anything to tint his perception of the world, when he had nothing else to blame but himself, no excuses available to him, when it was just himself and his own mind-

They were strangers. Isolated in the same space, each searching for the door out. Sanity was too heavy a burden, reality too heavy a burden.

Maybe Murray would find him. He'd been moving things about the house. Not this wing, Alistair didn't think he'd looked over here, didn't think he would. Alistair had asked him if he'd found any money but Murray had mostly ignored him, too busy counting vases or something. Most of them ignored him. They didn't like him, didn't trust him. No one trusted him.

He didn't trust himself.

"No money in here," Alistair mumbled, his voice rough and hoarse. A cough was stuck in his throat, clawing for purchase, but it didn't quite escape. He'd checked his own room when he'd first arrived. No hidden cash. And he'd need some soon, he needed to get more, only now he was stuck here and he was running out and-

The very thought made him shove his hands over his eyes, fingers curled inward like claws, palms digging into his eye sockets. It was so painful when he was out. No one understood. They'd take it away from him and say There, you're all better now and then they'd get to walk away like saints while he curled up in his closet, the Good Samaritan's victim, freezing and shaking and sobbing sometimes and days would pass and his mind would crack open and spill everywhere and he'd shut his eyes only to be haunted every moment so he'd open his eyes and find himself curled up in the dark facing a wall two inches from his nose and his eyes would be shot to hell and he'd be starving but he couldn't move and-

How many times had he died like that? Not in body but in mind. His mind was resuscitated time after time despite the DNR he'd mentally slapped on it. Life was painful and death was painful and all he wanted was to just be able to sit still in silence without having to think anything, without having to feel anything.

He kept his hands over his eyes. He didn't want to see anything, anyone. One of the other guests-

Man, ears, dog, Clifford-

Clifford had been avoiding someone. Or trying to. His ex-wife, he'd said. Not that he wanted to talk about it, he said. Alistair wondered if Clifford had hidden in a deteriorating wing of the building in a bathroom reeking of disrepair and disuse. Alistair didn't think so. Clifford had given off an air of wealth, of projected altruism that Alistair didn't for a minute believe. They were opposites, in a way. Clifford, shiny on the outside but dark beneath. Himself, Alistair, dark on the outside...

He didn't know what was inside of him anymore. Was there anything? The chill had finally settled into his bones, providing him with a brief moment of clarity. He could think for once without his brain grasping for tangents to wind him around and tear him apart.

But he found that he had nothing to think about. Nothing he found valuable to consider. He didn't consider himself valuable. That was a fact. Not that he believed much in facts. Everything was opinion, everything was perspective, everything was speculation. Everyone was biased, and the people who said they weren't were the most biased of all.

He wondered what Julia Banning was doing. Julia was one of the few people he'd found tolerable, or if not that, then interesting at the very least. She didn't seem to appreciate the other guests either. And there was something familiar about her, familiar yet not. Alistair enjoyed, to a degree, causing harm to himself. But Julia's eyes hinted that she liked causing harm to others.

As Alistair shifted, another tile came loose off the wall, clattering down into the tub, where smaller fragments broke off, spreading like dandelion seeds, desperate to get away.

Julia had been in the same position as him. Not in the same, crumbling bathtub. A nicer one, probably. One that wasn't covered in dust and particles that made the air thicker, scratching against the inside of his throat and lungs. And she'd used water. He didn't want to turn on the water. But she had. Her hair had been damp, her skin fresh and glowing.

He wondered what, exactly, she was trying to wash away.

He lowered his hands, his eyes drawn to the far wall of the bathtub. The shadows, encouraged by the flickering light, were still moving, eating away at the tiles.

They curled up, forming an oval. More shadows, filling in recesses within the oval, two deep pits for eyes, a line for a nose, a slash for lips.

"Delilah," Alistair whispered, feet kicking against the base of the tub, pushing himself up. He couldn't remember where he'd put his shoes. His bare feet were suddenly freezing.

The face on the wall stared back at him, eyes hard and unforgiving. "Did you kill me, Alistair?"

Alistair ignored the question, instead fumbling behind him, fingers sliding against the tile as he pried with his fingernails. His efforts were rewarded a moment later as a tile came out of the wall, and without waiting, he hurled the tile towards the face.

The ceramic exploded against the wall, shards falling into the tub or hitting the shower curtain and sliding to the ground. Still, the face remained.

"Did you kill me, Alistair?"

Alistair didn't bother with another shower tile, instead shoving himself off the tub wall, off balance at first, leaning heavily to the left, before he threw his fist against the tiling. The blood on his fingers from his nose co-mingled with with the blood surfacing from the innumerable small cuts that now lined his knuckles even as he punched again and again, both hands assailing the tile.

Whatever cold he'd felt earlier was gone as he stared at the red-flecked tiles. The light above the sink flickered once more before staying on for good.

Alistair eased back into the end of the tub, keeping his eyes on the tiles even as they tried to jump elsewhere. But Delilah was gone. His image, at least. That was good enough. As long as Alistair didn't have to look at his face. It wasn't always Delilah. Sometimes he saw memories, the first bike he'd ever gotten, his father smiling down at him, one hand on the handlebars. But Alistair had a feeling that some of the hallucinations were fake memories. He couldn't remember his father smiling at him unless it had preceded him beating Alistair's face into oblivion.

He sighed, resting his arms on the sides again and letting his head fall back against the tile. Maybe now he'd be able to relax.

A moment, then two. The blood singing in his veins, screaming in his head, his hands clenching and unclenching involuntarily, forming fists, hungry for more violence after the initial sample, hungry for chaos, for destruction, for ruination-

There would be no peace. Not for Alistair, not today.

He slammed his head back against the tile, teeth bared in a grimace. Once, twice-

He needed to hit his head hard enough to knock all the thoughts out. Then he could relax.

He threw his head back into the wall again, and this time, another tile shattered, the powdery remains lining the shoulders of his coat.

"I just-"

Slam.

"Want-"

Slam.

"To be left-"

Slam.

"Alone!"

Slam.

Alistair stopped, breathing heavily. A dull ache had settled into his head, along with a ringing sound. He stared dully at his hands, frowning at the blood and the torn knuckles, trying to remind himself why he was here in the first place.

Murder - Delilah had been murdered.

A doctor, a doctor had said he'd been killed around midnight.

Where had Alistair been at midnight?

He let out a raspy laugh, one that grated against the porcelain and ceramic. There were gaps in his memory - yawning, gaping gaps that loomed beneath him, swallowing him up. Hours, sometimes days that just- disappeared. He didn't know what happened during them. What he'd done, who he'd been. He'd woken up before with unfamiliar bruises, wearing a different outfit than before without explanation. And now he was missing his shoes and socks, although he was pretty sure the coat he was wearing was his own. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't.

Alistair set his head back against the tile. There should have been pain, he reckoned briefly, but there was just a comfortable warmth instead. The blood was warm, a familiar embrace. It made him feel less alone in the world.

A soft knock at the bathroom door had Alistair curling into the corner, bringing in his limbs.

"Alistair?"

Alistair threw his hands up over his head, shielding his face.

"Alistair, are you in..." There was a long moment of silence like the speaker had forgotten what she'd been about to say. Then, several soft footsteps, given away by the muffled scratch of broken tiling underfoot. A moment later, the shower curtain was pulled back, and Alistair pressed himself further into the wall, trying to avoid the newcomer.

"Alistair, what happened?" came the soft voice once more.

"Nothing happened," he said, words he'd mastered from a young age, but the pounding came back into his skull, the warmth disappearing from the back of his head as pain began to spread. His hands were still numb. "I'm fine, just- leave me alone-"

"Come," the girl said, tugging at the sleeve of Alistair's coat, and he pulled back, resisting, but something about the voice was familiar, had him lowering his hands and looking up.

Girl, ghosts, color, gray-

Gray. Gray Bennet.

"You-" Alistair began, his words fighting against his throat even as he let her help him out of the tub. He stumbled, his skin hitting the edge as he careened towards the wall, but she put a hand on his shoulder, stopping his fall. "How did you find me here?"

"I just had a feeling."

"You look familiar. Yesterday-" There was something about Gray that made it easier to think. His mind felt clearer when she was around. Probably because she also saw things she shouldn't, although for different reasons.

"Yes, you saw me yesterday," she confirmed with a nod. "We..." Her words trailed off once more as she stared at the mirror, her eyes flickering darkly. She came to after a moment, shaking her head as though trying to dispel what she'd seen, but she didn't take her eyes off the mirror. "We were talking, both of us and Tracy Collins. Do you remember Tracy?"

Tracy, dirt, sniffing, dog-

Another girl's face flashed in his mind.

"Yes," he said, although he couldn't remember anything past her face and her odd behavior. The girl vanished from his mind as he followed Gray's eyes, staring at the mirror, but he only saw what he expected to see. "Are your ghost friends in there?" he asked, tapping the glass as though it were a fish tank. "Tell them hi for me." A laugh seeped out of his throat, one that quickly shifted into a short coughing fit.

Gray ignored him, instead stepping closer to the sink and running the faucet. Gently, she took his hands and eased them beneath the water, which ran red for several seconds before diluting to a watery pink.

Eventually it was clear once more.

Gray turned off the tap.

"You should have the doctor look at you," she said, frowning, and Alistair followed her gaze. With the blood gone, he was able to see more clearly where some of the tile particles had cut into the skin. Tweezers would be required, likely.

"It's fine," Alistair said, shoving his hands back into his coat pockets. He hated doctors. Was wary of anyone who tried to shove them at him. He was fine, why was that so hard to understand?

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Gray asked, skimming his face before scanning the rest of his clothes for blood.

"No, I'm-" Alistair blinked, throwing a hand out against the sink to support his weight as his balance shifted and his vision was obscured by a cover of black. He blinked more, the world slowly coming back into focus, Gray's concerned - and quite possibly angry - eyes condemning him in the mirror.

Gray stepped closer, squinting at the back of his head, where blood had no doubt matted with his dark hair. 

"I'm fine," Alistair repeated, backing towards the open door so she couldn't inspect the wound. "I- I have something I need to do, so-"

"Don't," she interrupted, her eyes dark. "Alistair-"

"You don't understand," Alistair defended, his eyes already brighter at the thought. "I need this." His feet crunched over more cracked tile. If it cut his foot, he didn't notice as he backed out of the bathroom.

He saw it in her eyes, the expression he was most familiar with. Happiness was foreign to him, peace an impossible concept, but disappointment was something he knew well, the eyes of someone telling him that he was stronger than his habits.

He knew he wasn't. And he didn't care.

"You're hurting yourself," Gray said, but there was a finality to her tone, one that said that if he took another step, she wouldn't go after him.

"You don't know anything," Alistair said, his foot already sliding backwards, and then he was out in the hallway, the floor freezing beneath his feet as he first stumbled and then ran, racing back to his room. He wasn't a strong man, he knew that.

But several minutes later, nose burning and eyes dilated, blood seeping into his pillow from the back of his head, he was a momentarily untroubled man, and that was the most he could hope for.