[fancypost bordercolor=transparent; width: 400px; text-align: justify]Billy Bibbit hadn't been in his head as of late. He was strange. Numb. Nothing quite felt real, like everything was a big play and he was playing the starring role. The world was just too bright, too... surreal. Some might deem it a good change -- the anxious, stuttering mess was less... nervous. He still stuttered, sure, however there was little to no fear behind it. He didn't seem to be afraid of his own shadow anymore. To them, it might look like he'd finally gotten in control of his life.
But to others, this was no good change. Something was wrong. Billy was strange and different, and not in the good way. He acted like he was dead, and maybe his time was upon him. Who knew? One thing was for sure -- Billy definitely was not himself.
And so the estranged feline dragged himself back into camp, covered in blood. The crimson substance oozed out of cuts and slices from various points of his body. He said nothing, just sat down. For once, this wasn't his fault. Well, not all his fault. He had to lay claim to some of the cuts. Blinking hollow orange optics, the odd Billy stared ahead, waiting.