There is so little of me left now.
I am unravelling, literally.
My hands are now a collection of knives and my skin is no longer my own.
I hear the blood pumping in the veins of my coworkers, even as their hearts stop beating. Their blood still feels warm on my claws.
There is a terrible darkness where my memories once were.
Who am I?
[The rest of the journal has been torn to ribbons and is stained a disturbing shade of red]