I forced my eyelids open with a violent jolt. I’d already woken up, but the medication still clung to my lashes, dragging them down with a weight I could barely resist. Even so, I tried. It felt like digging a crater into my eye sockets, tearing through a nocturnal veil just so the sun could flood into my skull.

  I managed to open them just enough — enough to see sunlight filtering through the slats of the blinds, casting light across the small room around me. The shapes surrounding me were hazy and warped, like the ghosts of things that once had names and edges. The damn meds twisted everything. They didn’t soothe. They just numbed me, disconnecting me from whatever still made me human.

  A white dove crossed the room like a memory. It landed on my head and, with the velvety voice of my therapist, whispered into my ear:

  “— Then let’s make a deal... — That soft tone always slipped into my ears like a summer breeze, and I never stopped it from coming in. — When you wake up, pause for a moment and look around. Let’s call it the ‘good morning protocol.’”

  The bird then flapped its wings and rose toward the ceiling, passing right through it.

  At first, I thought it was just another method for detecting hallucinations — even though that had never really been a problem during my long stay. Maybe she wasn’t as clever as she seemed, after all. She knew I didn’t see things.

  But after the first time, I understood. Looking at the furniture, the walls, the window... it helped stabilize my vision more quickly, more consistently.

  I shooed away my doubts like chasing a stray cat off a garbage can. I needed my eyes to work properly. So I started the protocol.

  The room was small and strictly square, but surprisingly tall — its walls rose effortlessly to at least five meters. And yet, the space felt claustrophobic. As if the height only served to emphasize the feeling of being trapped at the bottom of a well.

  The window beside the bed took up most of the wall: nearly three meters tall, painted in a repulsive shade — a dirty, faded salmon that seemed to cling to everything. The outer blinds were simple but heavy, almost absurd in size. On the inside, a set of doors with six glass panes, framed by wooden moldings stained in the same worn-out salmon hue. Between the two layers, iron bars rose — spaced one fist apart, solid and unyielding. I’d tried to bend them a few times, but not even with the strength I once thought immense could I make them budge. Maybe the meds were shrinking me.

  I lifted my eyes to the towering beige walls, which shifted color near the top: a forty-centimeter strip of matte brown marked the end of the walls and the beginning of the ceiling. That border created the illusion of a box — brown lid, cream-colored sides. Maybe that’s exactly what it was: a box with no opening, no way out.

  My neck gave out, heavy, and I let my gaze drop to the floor. Beside me stood a double-door wardrobe. The door facing me held my few clothes, hygiene items, and the handful of books I’d managed to bring from home. The ones they had here were far too frivolous — and my mind, far too intense to tolerate frivolity.

  On the other side was my roommate’s half of the wardrobe, and his bed. The useless bastard didn’t have a window, but he did have the double door that led out — planted firmly in his territory. Even so, the space leading up to it was considered neutral ground. In the end, my side was still better.

  “Sleep properly,” I muttered to him.

  He lay in bed with the precision of a corpse: chest raised, fingers laced over his stomach, legs perfectly aligned, face aimed straight at the ceiling of the box we lived in. I wanted to get up and shake him. Not to wake him — that would be too kind — but to force some sound out of his lungs, any noise to prove he was still alive. Or maybe, to take all the air from him at once, help him cross into that state he so convincingly imitated. To make him, finally, what he pretended to be.

  I inhaled deeply. Once, twice, three times. For his sake, but also for mine. It was tempting. It would be easy to end him right there — smother him with a pillow, twist his neck like a wet rag, fashion a blade out of anything in the room. I’ve always been resourceful. Making weapons was never the problem.

  But control was part of the rule. Part of the protocol.

  There wasn’t much to see in the room, but it was enough. Even though I knew every curve of the furniture, every flaw in the walls by heart, forcing myself to see them — to remember they were there — helped. It grounded me. As if each object pinned my existence in place.

  I stood up carefully and walked to the door. Since there were no locks, all it took was a push. I forgot, once again, the kind of force I usually put into things. The door burst open violently and hit someone in the hallway.

  The impact ripped a shout from the man, who stumbled back and, once composed, shot me a strange look — something between disdain and arrogance, like I was beneath him. He didn’t meet my eyes. They never do.

  For a second, I pictured grabbing his face with both hands and folding it inward until apologies spilled from his mouth. But I breathed. After all, the fault was mine — and as someone of superior nature, owning up to it was part of the burden.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said, using the calmest tone I could find within myself.

  He kept staring at me for a few more seconds, rubbed his shoulder with two short passes, and walked away, disappearing into the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

  “Then go stuff yourself in hell,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.

  For a few seconds, I imagined following him. Teaching him the difference between an accident and a warning. Showing him what my strength could do when used with intention.

  But I stopped.

  I closed my eyes and let the voice of my therapist find me. Soft as the down of a white bird, it landed in my ears:

  “I take a deep breath, release the tension, and let peace guide my heart.”

  I recited it with her, not aloud, but within me. Her voice settled like a presence — and I didn’t push it away. With difficulty, yes. But I accepted it.

  And in the end, that was what mattered.

  I pushed the door open with my back, leaving the beige box behind. I stepped into the hallway — a long, sickly rectangle, where the walls, once perhaps white, had taken on the yellowed tone of aged nicotine. On either side, double doors marked with numbers, each hiding a replica of the room I had just left — little boxes where, if we were lucky, the living dead still pretended to breathe.

  The stream of patients thickened along with the smell of coffee — decaffeinated, soulless — wafting through the air like a lukewarm invitation to routine. They shuffled forward in silence, a zombified school of dragging steps and hollow stares. A few still looked alive. Probably the light cases: two blister packs of anxiolytics, maybe three, and a friendly diagnosis. The others... they were like me. So drugged their livers and kidneys had already handed in their resignations.

  My footsteps didn’t match theirs. I didn’t belong to the lethargic rhythm of the herd. I easily passed the old man with graying hair and a dark wooden cane. Then the short-legged lady with the upturned nose. Finally, the lanky one with long limbs, who despite the advantage of stride had no strength to keep up.

  That’s when something pulled me off course.

  Beside the doors to the cafeteria, the entrance hall. I heard the first lock click open, followed by the flat thud of it closing again, and then the sharp beep of a card being scanned. The door in front of me opened with a muffled click.

  Two nurses entered, pushing a wheelchair. In it sat a young woman, light brown hair and a distant expression. In her hands, she clutched a small silver crucifix — probably from a necklace, though any kind of cord was strictly forbidden. Her fingers traced the cross with a reverent tenderness. Her eyes scanned the space with silent caution, drinking in every detail around her. When she turned her head to the left, I saw the dark blotch on her cheek — a black mass that reached up to the edge of her eye.

  My stomach churned.

  How do they allow her in like that? Why don’t they cover it up? A mask. A cloth. Anything.

  It was grotesque.

  Disrespectful.

  Repulsive. The anger flared again. That blotch... I could tear it off with my own fingernails, and no one would even notice. They might even thank me. But the mantra whispered in my ears before the thought could take root. Still, she had trouble getting through the door — maybe because, without realizing it, I held it a few seconds too long.

  I left the hall behind and entered the dining room.

  I wasn’t the last one in, but I was far from among the first.

  Three rectangular tables occupied the center of the room, surrounded by chairs that looked ready to collapse under the weight of any thought heavier than a whisper. There were far too many seats for the number of bodies. Still, most of them clustered around a single table, like livestock pushing snouts against each other to slurp from the same trough of slop.

  The sight of those pigs wallowing in that tasteless paste they dared to call food made my stomach churn. I walked toward them. For a moment, I considered grabbing each one by the back of the neck and dragging their faces across the filthy wood, leaving trails of skin and spit like shattered snails.

  But the mantra still echoed. The voice was still in my ears.

  I breathed in. Let go. Let peace guide my heart—or at least tame my hands.

  I sat as far away from them as possible.

  Gradually, the others trickled in. They took their seats like mismatched pieces on a messy chessboard. The staff on duty—nurses, techs, shadows—was there too. All of us gathered in a single room was always a bad idea. All it took was the wrong spark to set everything ablaze. Especially if someone decided to provoke me.

  I settled into an isolated corner, like someone conducting a social experiment: I wanted to see who would dare sit close. A simple act, but revealing. Approaching someone is almost always a miscalculation.

  Of course, if anyone started chewing like the pigs at the center table, I’d have to take action. And if someone tells you a spoon can’t puncture an eye, don’t believe them—it absolutely can. The tool was never the problem. It’s the intent that matters.

  And that, I have in abundance.

  I glanced at the serving area: baskets of stale bread, lukewarm doses of coffee with milk, and a few creams of questionable origin. My stomach was already compromised—thanks to them. The constant nausea, mixed with the foul mood distilled from the morning’s small catastrophes, created the perfect recipe for disaster.

  That’s when I noticed.

  It wasn’t just that no one sat next to me. It was the entire table. Untouched. Empty. A zone of isolation had formed around me like an invisible quarantine field. They avoided me as if I were contagious.

  Maybe I was.

  My blood boiled.

  I shut my ears so she wouldn’t enter—the soft voice, the white bird, the mantra.

  Not this time.

  I stood slowly, with cruel intention, dragging the chair along the floor, making it screech like nails across a chalkboard. Before anyone could react to the sound, I kicked it back with my right foot. The wood splintered against the condiment cabinet, flying in pieces.

  And suddenly, silence.

  A perfect, absolute silence.

  Faces turned toward me with a mixture of shock and fascination. Those empty, wide eyes, frozen in a moment of pure fear. It was perhaps the most human scene I had witnessed in that place—and, ironically, the most beautiful. Someone should’ve taken a photograph. No... painted it. An oil on canvas, worthy of Cabanel. A new Fallen Angels by the Old Master, but without angels—only fragments of men trying to look alive.

  While they were still paralyzed, staring at the shattered chair, I opened the door to the hallway. I could’ve ended it there. Could’ve calmly walked back to my room and let the dust settle.

  But I felt their eyes on my back.

  Piercing.

  Analyzing.

  Judging.

  So I slammed the door shut.

  No—I hurled it against the frame.

  The sound echoed through the building like dry thunder, vibrating through the walls, the windows, the guts of every coward present. A reminder that I exist. That I see.

  And, more importantly, that they should be afraid of pushing me into another outburst.

  …Outburst.

  Another one.

  Again.

  I had one… just now… but… where is it?

  I ran without thinking, my feet dragging my body as if they knew more than I did.

  The first door ahead opened easily—a bathroom. Maybe the women’s. I didn’t care. I just went in.

  I ducked into the first open stall and sat on the toilet like someone seeking shelter during an air raid.

  I grabbed my head as if it were an overripe citrus fruit and started to squeeze. My fingers dug into my temples, my eyes shut tight, in a desperate attempt to wring out a drop of memory. A flash. A crumb.

  But everything was dry.

  Then came the taste.

  Bile.

  It surged through my chest and burned my throat.

  The world spun, the tiles trembled, and a sharp pain detonated in the center of my skull.

  An internal explosion.

  I started feeling around my head like a blind surgeon, trying to locate the breach—the hole through which my memories had escaped.

  I touched my forehead.

  Then the sides.

  Tangled hair, sweat.

  I reached behind my ears. Downward. And then—there it was.

  Right there.

  At the back of my head.

  A chill shot up my spine like a jet of ice.

  My fingers touched a raised line. A twisted path. Flesh poorly stitched.

  A scar.

  Thick. Surgical.

  In that instant, my neurons lit up like matches in a chain. Flashes of light, tiny explosions. And everything made sense. The math was simple. As simple as one plus one.

  They had erased me.

  They must’ve laced my meds with some sedative—strong enough to drop a bull.

  They waited for my body to collapse onto the bed, innocent. Waited for the right moment.

  Then they came—blades, gloves, tubes.

  And they extracted my memories.

  Ripped the truth from me.

  With scalpels and anesthesia.

  Surgeons of deception.

  I could try to explain, with what little I know about the human brain, how a memory extraction might work—but it’d be pointless.

  Words won’t undo what’s already been done.

  A wound doesn’t heal with theory.

  What mattered now was the how—how I’d demand answers. How I’d get justice.

  Call a doctor? Sit down and talk? That’d be monstrously stupid.

  They’d say I was delusional. A schizophrenic episode.

  They’d drug me even more, and I’d spend the rest of my life drooling in a corner, smiling at beige walls.

  No. I had to be clever.

  I had to see it with my own eyes, catch it with my own hands.

  Catch them in the act—leave no room for denial.

  And I had the perfect plan.

  That little game of musical chairs in the cafeteria hadn’t been a real outburst.

  Nothing worthy of scalpels. Yet.

  But a real one—a well-orchestrated one—might be enough.

  I’d have to fake it.

  Sell it.

  Put on a show.

  Maybe someone would have to get hurt.

  A necessary sacrifice.

  Who knows how many had already been lobotomized in secret?

  Who would be next?

  First, I needed to be clearheaded. Completely.

  The meds muddied my thoughts like mud in a glass.

  Kept my mind from seeing the fine print.

  They said it was to calm me down.

  But nothing calmed me. Not meds, not time.

  The rage was a beast awake inside me.

  And I could only keep it caged if I stayed awake.

  And there was always the risk they’d sedate me again—one slip, and I’d lose everything.

  They’d do it again.

  And again.

  Until there was nothing left of me.

  The thoughts began circling overhead like birds, swooping around my head. It reminded me of her.

  The psychologist.

  The mantras she whispered like warm wind, hypnotic.

  I knew her tricks. I knew the cadence. The way she built her words. The rhythm.

  I could hypnotize someone too.

  The human mind is more fragile than it seems.

  I left the bathroom and slipped back into the hallway. Breakfast was over. The other patients, dulled like cattle, were already returning to their rooms—most of them ready to sink into their second sleep of the day. They’d use their free time to escape reality in a chemical haze. As always.

  I waited, leaning against the wall, lurking. Like a patient predator.

  The flow slowed. Footsteps thinned out.

  Silence began to settle.

  Then I walked.

  Step by step.

  I pushed open the door to my room, making no sound.

  And there he was.

  My roommate.

  Still. Unshaken.

  Laid out like a body at a cheap wake.

  Hands folded over his chest.

  Eyes shut in false peace.

  Mouth slightly open, as if in prayer.

  He never disappoints.

  I approached slowly, the sound of my steps swallowed by the floor.

  I knelt at the foot of his bed, studying him like a sculptor before a block of marble.

  He would be my first test.

  My key.

  My bait.

  My performance.

  I knew I’d have to enter his mind—crack open the deaf doors of his ears, wrench open the gates of reason, and plant my idea there like an inevitable seed.

  But this wasn’t a volcano about to erupt.

  It was just a smoldering log—waiting for a breath, a nudge toward the right fire.

  And it was easier than I imagined.

  I brought my lips close to his ear, with the tenderness of a lover and the coldness of an executioner.

  I softened my voice, like she used to. Calm, firm, cutting:

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  — You’re going to take my meds. — I whispered.

  And I repeated it.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  Ten, in total.

  One more, just to be sure.

  Then I pulled back, sitting beside him, watching as if I could see the mental doors creaking open. I could almost see the roots of the idea curling slowly through the soft tissue of his brain. The seed had taken root. The work was done.

  I watched him for a few more seconds, still lying there in that ridiculous dead-man pose. Then I sighed and, like spitting with anger:

  — Sleep properly, idiot.

  He irritated me. Breathed too loudly. Slept like he was rehearsing for a coffin.

  As soon as I was done with the doctors, with those bastards in white coats, I’d come back to deal with him too.

  Maybe a good lesson would teach him how to die properly.

  I stood up slowly, like someone carrying something fragile on their back. Left the room and let the door close softly—not for his sake, but mine.

  I don’t like sleeping during the day. Especially with a living corpse snoring beside me.

  I still had hours until pill distribution.

  I knew how it worked: plastic cups with our names scrawled in pen, a lazy, repetitive choreography. Each person grabbed theirs, threw the pills into their mouth, filled the same little cup with water—and swallowed whatever it was. Some had two cups: one for the sublinguals, another for the rest. All done under the distracted gaze of a nurse who was already pissed just to be there.

  And when it was my turn… I simply wouldn’t be there.

  I’d be hiding in the bathroom, listening to the cabinet door creak, to the sound of the cups being handed out, to the obedient silence of each patient.

  And my roommate, the idiot, the obedient sleepwalker… would take my meds.

  Maybe they’d calm the bastard down, since they were useless on me.

  The nurse wouldn’t notice.

  No one would.

  But I’d notice everything.

  I walked the halls, wondering how the hell I was going to keep myself remotely entertained during that stretch of dead time.

  The clinic, after all, wasn’t exactly an amusement park—unless your idea of fun involved oppressive silence, beige walls, and the constant stench of disinfectant.

  There were activities, sure, but they came like passing storms: showing up out of nowhere and vanishing without warning, leaving behind nothing but the sticky boredom of the aftermath.

  Still, we managed.

  We had some decks of cards.

  Games. Distraction.

  But I got way too angry while playing. With me, there was no middle ground: either I won or I wanted to shove the cards down my opponent’s throat.

  Result: no one wanted to play with me anymore.

  Option discarded.

  There was a library.

  Well—more like a heap of books written by optimistic loudmouths who believed they’d discovered the key to mental sanity and decided to share it with other idiots who think underlining self-help quotes is the same as spiritual growth.

  Waste of time.

  Another option scratched off.

  And then…

  Pigeon counting.

  Yep, that was it.

  One of the windows down the second hallway looked out onto a sheet metal roof, and there the winged rats would gather—like they were part of some secret cult. A ritual of crap and crrruuu.

  I walked to the window, slid my arm between the bars, and pushed open the shutter. The sky was overcast—clouds stacking up like bruises overhead.

  The night would be cold.

  Good.

  The first pigeon appeared.

  “One pigeon…” I muttered.

  “Crruu crruuu,” it said, like it agreed.

  Followed by those annoying little footsteps on the metal. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Two pigeons…” I continued.

  “Crruu crruuu crruuuu,” came the chorus.

  Tap tap tap tap.

  “Three pi—”

  “Cru—”

  “Go fuck yourselves!” I growled, yanking the shutter back so hard the pigeons scattered in clumsy flight, wings flapping like plastic bags in the wind.

  The count had gone straight to hell.

  How does anyone live near these abominable creatures? Damn flying rats.

  I sighed deeply and decided to head to the card game—if only to watch.

  Maybe—just maybe—watching them play wouldn’t piss me off as much as actually playing.

  I crossed the hallway, turned another corner, pushed a door open, and stepped into the main room.

  There it was.

  The grand recreation room.

  Tables.

  Chairs.

  Sofas and armchairs with dying springs.

  Bookshelves full of sad volumes pretending to be a library.

  The heart of this asylum.

  And me—right in the center of it—on the verge of becoming part of another unintentional spectacle.

  You could hear a "truco!" shouted from one corner, a "uno!" from the other, and between these echoes of cheap distraction, the quiet sighs of people who’d already surrendered to boredom.

  A small group sat in a circle, sharing emotions and life stories like they were laundering dirty clothes with soft words.

  I tried that once.

  The result? I jumped on some bastard who kept pressing me with questions.

  Later I found out he was a psychologist.

  Still, no one has the right to dig that deep.

  The ones pretending to read weren’t really reading. Their eyes barely tracked the lines, pages turning too quickly—like they were afraid to actually face the words.

  A shared performance of fake intellect.

  I spotted the new girl—the one with the stained face and the crucifix—flipping through a worn-out Bible with a kind of ferocity that bordered on heretical. I couldn’t even tell if she was reading or exorcising her own fingers.

  I sat in an isolated chair near a table—but far enough that no one would feel comfortable starting a conversation.

  The old men playing cards looked like they’d come straight out of a neighborhood bar where the smell of stale alcohol mixed with unwashed regrets.

  I never had a drunk father to blame for some romantic trauma—never even met my dad—but my uncle took on that role with enthusiasm.

  He used to beat me and his sister harder than he ever hit his own kids.

  I must’ve let some of that slip onto my face, because a few people started glancing back at me, pretending not to.

  Lucky for them, I needed a distraction.

  Otherwise, I’d line up every card like a razor blade and perform impromptu surgery on their eyes.

  But not today.

  Today, I was calm.

  Time passed—or oozed, like pus from an open wound—and lunch finally arrived.

  The school of fish moved once more, obedient and zombified.

  I was one of the first to stand.

  Didn’t want to be trapped in the middle of the crowd, or left behind like a forgotten scrap on the plate.

  I sat in the same spot as before.

  The kitchen staff began lifting the lids off the food trays.

  The smell—if you could call it that—almost knocked me over.

  My stomach twisted like it was trying to escape.

  I had to hold myself together, leaning forward without looking weak.

  Something was wrong.

  Wrong in a new kind of way.

  Like my senses were... misaligned.

  And then the suspicion came—venomous and sharp:

  maybe the memory extraction had damaged something deeper than I’d thought.

  Could they have broken something inside my brain?

  Was my sense of taste and smell now ruined too?

  And how was I supposed to ask for tests?

  What would I even say?

  "Excuse me, doctor, I think you lobotomized me in my sleep and accidentally took my sense of smell with you."

  Yeah. That’d earn me a straightjacket and a padded room.

  I had to wait.

  Wait to get out of this cursed place.

  Wait to reclaim what was mine by right—my memories.

  And maybe, just maybe, my revenge.

  I refused to eat again. One or two days without food was a small price to pay to outsmart the doctors—a tiny fast in the name of a greater cause.

  When everyone had been served, I stood and walked out of the cafeteria.

  No drama this time.

  I wanted them to think I was stable.

  And I’m sure they bought it.

  The monotony of the day stabbed through my chest like a spear.

  I counted six more pigeons before giving up and cursing every bird that had ever existed.

  Then back to the same chair, near the table where the old men gathered.

  I sat, watching their trembling fingers shuffle cards stained with boredom.

  I must’ve dozed off.

  I woke to the sound of people standing up for dinner.

  Everyone had already left the game room.

  And guess what?

  Did anyone bother to wake me up?

  Of course not.

  Even before crossing the cafeteria’s threshold, the revulsion hit me hard.

  Like a punch from the inside out.

  The worry returned.

  What if my sense of smell really had been damaged?

  If that were true, I swore—on everything I still had left—that I would have my revenge.

  Once again, I left before dinner ended.

  I knew what came next.

  Right after dinner, they handed out the meds.

  I’d have to rush to the bathroom and hide.

  The hallway was empty.

  No sign of the nurse with the silver tray.

  Perfect.

  I slipped into the bathroom and sat on the same toilet as before—the place where I’d discovered the scar.

  The place where I’d found the truth.

  A temple.

  I let an hour pass.

  In my head, the timing was perfect: just enough for everyone to take their pills, exchange useless words, and for the stragglers to be coerced—either by force or exhaustion.

  I counted each second like they were stones, one by one, all the way to 3600.

  I swear, it was as precise as a Swiss watch.

  I cracked the door open.

  And there she was.

  The nurse crossing the hallway at the exact moment, the silver tray in her arms now completely empty.

  My plan had worked.

  The idea lodged in that idiot’s mind had actually worked.

  I waited for her to disappear from view and returned to my room.

  Most of the patients were still in the game room, squeezing the last moments of state-approved lucidity.

  I lay down.

  My roommate was already motionless in his bed.

  Eyes shut, the serene face of a temporary corpse.

  The sleeping pill must’ve been strong. Mixed with the meds meant for me, they were now working on him.

  A useful zombie.

  Finally.

  Now, I could begin planning the next step.

  The hunt for the surgical doctors was about to begin.

  “Idiot,” I muttered, looking at that damn posture.

  It had been years since I last lay down with a clear mind.

  Now, just a few minutes of clarity were enough to expose all the cracks in the world.

  Thinking clearly came too easily—so much so that I got lost in the current of thought, staring at the box-lid ceiling like it might answer something.

  The darkness outside had thickened. The sun had already surrendered.

  I forced my mind out of that trance, but something helped me do it:

  the sound of the door opening.

  The creak of its hinges rang like an alarm, metallic and urgent.

  My eyes snapped toward it, eagle-sharp, catching even the smallest movement.

  But what came in was no prey.

  Five skeletal fingers tore at the wood, nails thin and peeling.

  The skin—withered, yellowing—looked ready to slip off the bone.

  Each motion cracked like a dead branch.

  They pulled the door open completely, revealing a corridor of darkness—

  not normal darkness, but a thick, pressing nothingness.

  Almost tangible.

  And then the shadows moved.

  At first, they slithered like snakes. But soon I realized: they were strands of hair.

  Long, dark, viscous—dancing as if they had a will of their own.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  The arms came next—thin, bony, laced with deep, bleeding gashes.

  Blood poured slowly, thick and heavy, forming stagnant pools across the floor.

  The feet didn’t step forward. They dragged.

  Their nails scraped the wood, drawing jagged lines like claws claiming territory.

  The creature wore the same dull-grey patient uniform.

  But unlike mine, hers was torn, filthy, ripped in dozens of places, revealing raw wounds, rotting flesh, unmistakable signs of gangrene.

  For a second, I imagined what her face must look like.

  But when she finally stepped fully out of the night,

  I saw—

  There was no face.

  Only a veil of writhing black hair, thick and alive, as if the darkness itself had become her face.

  That’s when I understood.

  My memories...

  It wasn’t the doctors who took them.

  No.

  She fed on them.

  They let her in—let her dig her claws into my skull, rip out the fragments of who I was, and drink it all through that faceless void.

  My blood boiled.

  My face caught fire.

  I felt my body move without command. I sprang from the bed.

  And I stood face-to-face with her.

  Maybe I caught her off guard.

  She must’ve expected me to be doped, limp, a vegetable.

  But here I was: awake, lucid, aware.

  She growled.

  And that sound…

  There’s no comparison to anything of this world.

  All I can offer is the feeling it left behind:

  Like dragging a knife across your teeth until they crack.

  Like stabbing someone you love.

  Like… cutting him off with scissors.

  Agonizing. Unbearable.

  My ears, used to the velvet tone of the psychologist’s voice, couldn’t withstand it.

  I dropped to my knees, hands clamped over my ears.

  The world didn’t spin.

  It imploded.

  And the ashes still burned.

  I must’ve stayed there longer than the sound itself lasted,

  Because when I finally looked up...

  She was gone.

  I crawled into the hallway.

  The lights revealed everything around me—but not her.

  Not to the left.

  Not to the right.

  I pressed my palms to the wall, forced my body upright with what strength I had left.

  Breath ragged.

  Limbs like jelly.

  The adrenaline that had flung me from bed was gone, vanished just as fast as it had come.

  Now there was only reason—

  and fear.

  I staggered into the bathroom.

  My new temple.

  My sanctuary.

  Sat on the same lucky toilet seat, blocked the door with my foot.

  The window offered a view of a clear sky, and the sweet, warm sun peeked in.

  It was there—like it was ready to help.

  ◆◆◆

  I rose from the makeshift throne.

  The rest had been worthless—I’d spent the whole night replaying plans, rewriting strategies, preparing myself to take the thing down.

  A new theory had formed.

  What if she was a ghost?

  The slit wrists, the dragging steps...

  Maybe she was a patient who’d killed herself.

  And that was the worst theory.

  Because ghosts are intangible.

  If I tried to punch one, my fist would pass right through.

  But luckily—I already had the solution.

  I waited for breakfast and joined the school of fish.

  In the trough: tea, cornbread, bananas.

  The nausea came, but I swallowed it hard.

  Sat in my usual spot, and when I turned, I saw it: the same cupboard from yesterday.

  I slipped it open quietly, careful not to draw attention.

  Inside—dozens of packets.

  I grabbed twenty sachets of salt and tucked them into my pocket.

  Not enough.

  But more than that would raise suspicion.

  At lunch, I did it again.

  Another twenty-five.

  Forty-five in total now.

  I hadn’t returned to my room since yesterday.

  But I knew I’d have to.

  Tonight—during dinner—I’d complete my arsenal.

  Just twenty more little packets... and I’d be ready.

  From the hallway, I watched.

  My door was ajar.

  She’d come early today.

  I saw those serpentine strands of hair dancing in the air before the door slowly closed.

  She entered.

  Maybe my roommate was in danger.

  Not that I cared—

  He could rot in that ridiculous sleeping pose. Bastard.

  But this was my chance.

  To catch her off guard.

  While she was distracted with him.

  I sprinted to the bathroom.

  Pulled off my sock and started tearing the salt packets open.

  Poured them in fast, the grains slipping through the fabric like sand through a sieve.

  Took the other sock, wrapped it around, pulled everything tight.

  It took longer than I thought—but in the end, it was perfect.

  I tied a firm knot, swung the weapon in the air.

  It was ready.

  Ready to kill the specter.

  She might be able to pass through the sock.

  But the salt... ah, the salt wouldn't.

  I gripped my artifact like a knight of the Round Table, marching to slay a dragon—

  or a ghost with gangrene.

  I ran down the corridor.

  But as I neared the door, I slowed.

  I needed silence.

  If she screamed again, I might collapse just like before.

  I needed to surprise her.

  I pushed the door open—slowly.

  Just enough to peek inside.

  First, I saw the corpse—

  still asleep on the bed.

  Useless, even as bait.

  But she wasn’t on him, tearing into his head like I’d imagined.

  She was in my territory.

  Kneeling at the foot of my bed,

  body hunched, face buried into the mattress—

  as if smelling my dreams.

  Searching for my memories?

  Sucking in my scent?

  Fascinated by my presence?

  My fist tightened around the salt.

  She had chosen the wrong side of the war.

  It didn’t matter what the question was—or the answer.

  She was here.

  And I was ready.

  I took four, maybe five slow steps until I reached her back.

  Her spine jutted outward like calcified thorns, tearing through the tattered fabric and bleeding through rotting skin.

  Her bent knees looked seconds from collapse, decay running all the way to the bone.

  I swung my makeshift weapon in the air, building as much momentum as I could.

  Maybe she sensed me—

  or maybe she just felt the weight of the sentence she was about to receive—

  because she turned her faceless head toward me.

  It was the perfect moment.

  I struck her with everything I had.

  Her body flew like a ragdoll, crashing to the floor.

  Her thin, bloodied arms stretched out like dead branches,

  and that face—

  that face with no face—

  was a dizzying abyss.

  I stared too long into that void, hypnotized by the horror.

  But I snapped out of it.

  I hit her again.

  And again.

  Each strike more brutal than the last.

  I avoided the center of her head, afraid my weapon might get swallowed by the nothingness,

  but the side of her skull took some serious punishment.

  She endured more than I expected.

  And that only fed my rage.

  I kept hitting.

  And hitting.

  As if it was the end of the world—

  or the beginning of it.

  One blow landed so hard, the outer sock tore.

  The second came loose, flung like a wounded bird, spinning in the air before landing on my bed, scattering salt across the sheets.

  It looked like snow.

  At least... that’s how I imagine snow.

  I pounced onto the bed like a cat, fierce and focused.

  But just as my hands reached for the fallen weapon among the folds, something made me freeze—

  An old Bible, open to some psalm, lay gently on the mattress.

  For a moment, I hesitated.

  Was the creature... religious?

  Did ghosts have gods?

  But I had no time for questions.

  She was going to die again.

  And this time, she'd meet the end she deserved.

  —He...lp... me...

  The words came out broken, scraped raw—more a moan than a plea.

  I turned my eyes to the floor.

  She was crawling, wormlike and wounded,

  body twisted, skin torn open.

  In her left hand, something glimmered—

  A small silver cross, sparkling like a star in the dark.

  I jumped off the bed and landed squarely on her back, pinning her in place.

  She screamed—but not like before.

  The voice, once like rusted metal slicing into my ears, now sounded... more human.

  Softer.

  Weaker.

  I grabbed her long black hair—no longer serpentine or spectral, just limp and lifeless on the floor.

  I turned her face by force.

  I wanted her to see me.

  To look into the eyes of her executioner.

  But there—

  Where once there was only emptiness—

  something had changed.

  The abyss on her face was fading.

  The total darkness slowly receded, like ink being washed from skin.

  Her left cheek still bore a dark blotch, like a spectral bruise,

  but the rest...

  It was a face.

  A woman’s face.

  Young.

  Bruised.

  Human.

  It was her.

  I’d seen that face too many times to have any doubts.

  The same mark on her cheek, the same haunted expression that stalked me even in sleep.

  Rage surged like wildfire, and before I could think—

  I kicked her face into the floor.

  But I didn’t stop there.

  She was no longer a ghost.

  She was flesh.

  And I still had fists.

  I punched.

  I kicked.

  No rhythm. No mercy.

  Each blow peeled away a layer of my hatred—

  for her, for the doctors, for the other patients, for this filthy place.

  For the pigeons.

  For the smell of food.

  For everything they did to me.

  And everything I had become.

  She was the goddamned sum of it all.

  And now, she would be the punishment.

  When I was finally done,

  I let what was left of her collapse to the ground—

  bruised, bloodied, bones out of place.

  One of her arms lay bent at an impossible angle.

  It was done.

  And for some reason... I felt lighter.

  I took two steps back—

  and bumped into someone.

  I turned around, heart still burning—

  and found myself face to face with my idiot roommate.

  He stood there, upright, wide-eyed,

  as if waking from a coma at the worst possible moment.

  I tried to speak.

  To explain.

  But my throat went dry.

  Words crashed into each other like drunks in a dark alley.

  —She... I... it was... accident... she attacked... memories...

  But none of it made sense.

  Not to him.

  Not even to me.

  He was a thin man,

  bony, twisted features,

  taller than I remembered,

  with a few blonde strands clinging to his scalp as if they hadn’t realized it was time to let go.

  He said nothing.

  Until his right eye—dry, milky—

  started bleeding.

  I staggered back.

  Red spots bloomed across his gray uniform,

  like rotting flowers blooming through the fabric.

  The stain grew with a life of its own,

  crawling over the cloth,

  invading it.

  He didn’t move.

  He just stared.

  Stared at my hand.

  Slowly.

  As if beholding a sacred relic.

  I followed his gaze.

  Between my fingers, a large screw—the same one I’d pried from the cafeteria chair with a spoon days ago. But… why?

  He looked down at his own chest, at the hole sunk into it like a flower made of iron.

  “You sleep in that weird way… it pisses me off,” I said, confused.

  He nodded.

  “It was you...? The one I snapped on?”

  Another nod. Slow. Almost gentle.

  I let the screw fall. It hit the ground with dry clicks, bounced once, twice, then rolled into the woman’s blood. She was still groaning, spitting out pieces of pain and blood, writhing like a crushed worm.

  My roommate looked past me, toward the wardrobe.

  I turned slowly.

  The corner was smeared, a deep red trickling down like a quiet reminder of another body. And on the floor, a fresh puddle, recent, pulsing—almost alive.

  Someone else.

  Or another memory.

  “I attacked you and you… you pushed me?”

  I reached for the scar on the back of my neck. It throbbed like a wounded heart, tearing itself open again.

  Beside us, the new girl—or the creature, I didn’t know anymore—started convulsing.

  “She’s a monster.”

  He shook his head, calm as if he’d known all along.

  Then he looked at me.

  “Me? I’m not the monster! This is your fault! All you had to do was sleep normally!” I shouted, breath crashing in and out like a broken engine. “And her? She just had to cover that stupid stain on her face! And now? Now we’re dead, is that it?”

  He confirmed with a slow, dry nod.

  Dead.

  He turned his face back to the wardrobe.

  I followed the look.

  Opened the doors.

  His side was empty.

  Mine… full of women’s clothes. Clothes that weren’t mine. That never were. That never should’ve been there.

  I looked back.

  He was already walking to his bed, as if nothing had happened.

  Laid down with the serenity of an old man well-acquainted with his own ending.

  Fingers folded over his chest, eyes to the top of the box, pulled the sheet to his face.

  He looked… at peace.

  Like it had all been a choice.

  I didn’t accept it.

  He killed me.

  I ran to the bed and yanked the blanket away with force. But the body...

  Wasn’t there anymore.

  The bed was empty.

  Empty.

  I looked at my own bed. It felt like an invitation. A half-open door to somewhere else.

  Should I lie down in that funereal position and follow him into the afterlife?

  Heaven or hell… he definitely went down. But me? Could I handle living next to smug angels?

  My rage would condemn me up there eventually, I was sure of it.

  I can’t go. Not yet.

  I have to stay. I have to drain this rage—every last drop—before I go.

  I crouched beside her.

  She’d stopped shaking. Her eyes were open, dull.

  Her lips moved like they were reaching for a word, but nothing came out.

  No salvation. No plea.

  She was the one who tore me from the illusion, who ripped apart the lie that had kept me safe.

  She brought reality back.

  And for that, she had to pay.

  My hands went to her neck.

  I felt her body stiffen beneath the cold touch of my fingers.

  She tried to lift her good arm—she tried—but it didn’t rise far.

  No strength. No chance.

  I squeezed.

  With everything I had.

  When she stopped moving, I held on for a few more seconds.

  Just to be sure.

  Until the body turned cold.

  Her arm dropped. The stain… was still there. Untouched.

  It wouldn’t be easy to rid myself of this anger.

  But there were many patients in this clinic.

  And when they were gone, there would still be the doctors.

  Finally, a remedy that calmed me.