

10. Years Ago
Alisa:
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering occasionally like the remnants of my sanity. I leaned against the cold, sterile wall of my room at the mental hospital, the grey paint peeling as if it, too, wanted to escape. Outside, the distant wail of sirens mingled with the echo of laughter from the courtyard, an unsettling juxtaposition to the chaos inside my mind.
"Hey, Alisa!" A voice broke through my thoughts. It was Marcy, the girl from down the hall. Her laugh was like glass shattering—sharp and unexpected. "Yeah?" I turned, forcing a smile. She leaned closer, her eyes wide with mischief. "Did you hear about the new doctor? They say he's a real piece of work." "Do tell," I replied, crossing my arms.
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "They say he's handsome. Like, movie-star handsome. But he's got a temper. One of the nurses said he threw a chair across the room last week." I couldn't help but laugh, a hollow sound that echoed in the empty space. "Sounds like a real catch." "Right?" Marcy grinned, her dark hair bouncing with her enthusiasm. "I'd take a temperamental doctor over these creeps any day." My laughter faded, my heart racing at the thought of any man in this place. The last one I'd known had turned my world upside down, leaving me with blood on my hands and a heart full of guilt.
"I don't think I'm ready for any... distractions," I murmured. Marcy shrugged, her smile fading as she studied my face. "You know, Alisa, you can't just keep hiding. You've got to face it—whatever 'it' is." I looked away, my gaze landing on the barred window. Outside, a couple strolled hand in hand, their laughter floating in like a siren song. "What's the point?" I whispered.
"I'm in here for ten years. Ten years of... what? Isolation?" "Ten years isn't forever," Marcy insisted, her voice firm. "You have to fight. You survived, didn't you?" "Barely," I muttered, my voice cracking. The memories crashed over me like waves—my father's rage, the knife glinting in the dim light, the moment I had to choose between life and death.
"Just promise me you won't give up," Marcy said, her eyes earnest. "You're stronger than you think." I forced a nod, but doubt gnawed at the edges of my resolve. "I'll try." As she left, the door creaked shut behind her, and I was once again alone with my thoughts. The weight of the past pressed heavily on my chest, but Marcy's words lingered. Maybe I could fight. But for what? In this cage, what was left for me beyond survival?
The dim light of the office flickered in sync with my heartbeat, creating an unsettling rhythm that filled the silence between me and Dr. Reynolds. The air hung heavy with unspoken words, memories clawing at the edges of my mind like desperate hands reaching for the light. I sat rigidly on the soft-cushioned chair, my fingers intertwined, knuckles white against the muted fabric.
"Alisa, you're safe here," Dr. Reynolds' voice was steady, but to me it echoed with a chilling familiarity, wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud.
I finally dared to look up, meeting his eyes, dark and understanding, as they waited expectantly for my confession. "It was a night like any other," I began, my voice trembling but resolute, each word dripping with the weight of my past. "I remember the rain tapping against the window, a soft drumming that felt almost soothing. But then he came home."
My memories twisted and contorted like shadows dancing on the walls. My father, a tall figure with a once-magnificent presence, was now a hollow shell filled with rage and despair. "He stumbled through the door, reeking of alcohol and violence. His eyes were wild, a storm brewing beneath the surface. I knew, somehow, that it was going to be a bad night."
The night unfolded in slow-motion, the sounds of laughter from the television drowned out by the rising tension. My mother, gentle and warm, had tried to calm him, her voice a whisper of reason slicing through the chaos. But reason was a foreign language to him in those moments. I could almost hear the echoes of my mother's pleas, soft and desperate, rising above the tempest of fury.
"He yelled at her," I continued, my throat tightening as I relived the nightmare. "My brothers were in the other room, too young to understand what was happening. I wanted to shield them, to tell them it would be okay. But I was just a girl."
The memories clawed at my insides, raw and open as if time had refused to heal the wounds. My gaze drifted to the floor, where the carpet had absorbed countless tears—my, my mother's, even my father's. "I was hiding, crouched behind the couch, my heart pounding like a prisoner desperate to escape its cage. I could hear him shouting, the sound of something breaking—glass? Furniture? I didn't know. But then I heard her scream."
It cut through the air like a knife, a sound that would haunt me for eternity. I felt her breath hitch as the image emerged unbidden: my mother on the floor, struggling against the force that loomed over her. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this," I whispered. "Not to us."
Dr. Reynolds leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern. "What did you do, Alisa?"
A chill raced down my spine as I recounted the moment, each second stretched into infinity. "I grabbed the knife from the kitchen counter, my hand shaking, my mind screaming for me to do something—anything. I didn't want to hurt him, but I couldn't let him hurt us. I had to protect my family."
The knife felt heavy in my grasp, an anchor to my resolve, but also a harbinger of doom But he was fast, his knife reached me and went through my shirt,blood everywhere. The confrontation was chaos incarnate. I saw my father's face, contorted in rage, the glint of the blade reflecting his madness. In that split second, everything changed. The world grew quiet, time halting as I plunged the knife into his side, a sudden jolt of warmth flooding my veins as he staggered back, eyes widening in shock.
"I killed him," I whispered, the admission falling like a stone into the depths of her conscience. "I killed my father."
A hollow laugh escaped my lips, the sound foreign in the stillness of the room. "I became what I feared most. And in that moment, I became a killer."
Dr. Reynolds' silence spoke volumes, the weight of my confession hanging between them like a thick fog. "You did what you had to do," he finally said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Survival sometimes requires us to make impossible choices."
But I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that wrapped around my heart like ivy, squeezing tighter with each passing second. "I don't know who I am anymore," I admitted, tears spilling down my cheeks. "Was I really protecting my family? Or did I just become another monster in the darkness?"
As I sat there, vulnerable and exposed, I realized that the shadows of my past would always loom large, a constant reminder of the night when everything changed—a night when love turned to hate, and innocence was stained crimson.