I bite into the egg and yolk dribbles down my chin, trailing down over my bulging Adam's apple and disappearing behind my pajama shirt. The invigorating smell of coffee permeates my nostrils, breaking me from my dreary state; alerting me to the world around me.

". . .and in more recent news, a bizarre murder down at Greenview Plains." The droning of the television fills my eardrums, and I slowly drift my head over towards it, my eyes still focused on my coffee - too lazy to even move.

"A Caucasian man; dressed entirely in red, reported to have inhuman strength - threw a pedestrian across the road, causing him to be run over by a passing car." My grip on the mug tightens for a moment, and I bring my full focus towards the news report before me. "The attacker was then reported to have run away from the scene, jumping upon cars and knocking over bins as he went. The police are still looking for him, if anyone sees a man dressed entirely in red around Greenview Plains; contact your local authorities."

Those events, they sound familiar. A copycat crime, perhaps?

No, it almost seems too familiar.

I take a sip of my coffee and my brain kicks into overdrive. Memories flood my brain, flashes of red and maniacal laughter; my own laughter. The screeching of tires and-

My mug clatters to the floor, scalding coffee splashes against my foot, sending pain racing through my body. I jump up from the table and back away from the mess. My dream?

I had a dream that I was in red, I killed a man for being noisy; threw him across the road. Was it a dream? It had to be. I look down at my arms, thin and lanky; not an ounce of muscle upon them. To throw someone onto the road like that, I'd have to be someone else. . . I'd have to be dreaming. Not even a drunken stupor, not even a drug-fueled blackout.

I remember it all.

Turning my head back to the television, I flick through the channels to find other news of the incident. They all tell the same story, and they all have the same conclusion.

. . .it was as if the suspect mysteriously disappeared come daybreak.

My stomach churns.

I run to the sink and expel the contents of my breakfast in it. Chunks of digested egg and toast come awash in a sea of orange bile; dancing in the drain. I continue to heave until I can no more, and then I stand, hunched over the sink - heaving up nothing but my own disgust.

It must have been an hour when the phone rang.

"Why aren't you in work, Johnson?"

". . .sick."

"This is the eighth time this fortnight! You're fired!"

A soft click fills my ears, and I stumble over to the sink to heave again.

It's bright outside, too bright.

I bring my hands in to shield myself from the sun. A flurry of red covers my eyes. As I pull back my arms in shock, it moves too.

I stare down at myself.

Red. I'm the red man.

A scream echoes through my ears, I turn on my heels to face the source - and my vision follows shortly afterwards. Through the vibrant, shifting colors of the world before me, I can make out a single figure, a young woman. There is a phone to her head and she is speaking words that I cannot understand.

I open my mouth to speak, but what comes out is nothing but a series of groans. As I walk closer to her, she fumbles in her bag and withdraws a small metallic object. Without warning, droplets of a clear liquid fly through the air, heading towards my face. I see them clearly in the sunlight, like bubbles, like sparkling diamonds - shining in the ever-so-present radiant light.

They collide into my face, and searing pain shoots through my eyes. I clutch at them and rub my fingers into them in an attempt to alleviate the pain.

Red! What are you doing out at day? Wake up!

A voice? I clench my eyes shut and attempt to wake myself.

You're going to have to kill the witness first, idiot!

I stagger towards the woman, my vision still bleary. And without thinking, without command, I-

I awake clutching the ground, covered in my own crusty stomach acid. My throat is parched and dry, and I have a very bad feeling that I did something very terrible.