Family--Isaac

 

I didn’t kill them, it wasn't me who did it. People call me a mentally ill patient, but I know the truth—I'm not one of them. I'm not like the others who shuffle along these sterile corridors, their minds trapped in a haze of medication and delusion. No, I am different. I see things they cannot, hear whispers they dare not acknowledge. And now, as I sit in this cold, dimly lit room, in which I do not deserve to be in.

It began when I first arrived at a type of hospital, a crumbling institution nestled on the outskirts of town. The moment I stepped through its doors, I felt a chill run down my spine—a sensation that told me I had stumbled into something far darker than I could have ever done to be in this place.

The nurses tried to soothe my nerves, their voices laced with false promises of safety and healing. But I saw through their facade, sensed the fear that lurked behind their forced smiles. They knew the truth of this place, knew the horrors that lay hidden within its walls, and they thought or knew it was me who killed him and his family.

As the days turned into weeks, I found myself drawn to the other patients—the lost souls who wandered the halls like ghosts, their eyes vacant and their minds fractured. Among them, I discovered whispers—whispers of a presence that stalked the corridors at night, its malevolent presence sending shivers down the spines of even the most hardened patients.

I tried to dismiss their stories of the hospital as the ravings of troubled minds, but the whispers grew louder, more insistent, until I could no longer ignore them. Was this the punishment for my sins? To make me go insane? They spoke of a shadowy figure that prowled the halls, its eyes gleaming with madness and its laughter echoing through the empty corridors.

Driven by a morbid curiosity, I began to investigate, sneaking out of my room under the cover of darkness to search for the source of the whispers. And what I found I thought I had gone insane.

In the bowels of the hospital, hidden away from prying eyes, I made out the depiction of who it exactly was. It was my brother, but it wasn’t him, it only had a figure of him... I was here in a forgotten wing where the most deranged patients were housed, their screams muffled by thick walls and heavy doors. It was there that I encountered the shadowy figure—a twisted soul consumed by madness and driven to torment those who committed these crimes and had a chosen fate. I could not understand why he was here with me, here to punish me for what I supposedly did...

I tried to flee, to escape the horrors of the mentally ill place, but the shadowy figure of my own blood pursued me relentlessly, I could hear his laughter as if he was taunting me, as if he was trying to get revenge. I begged him to let me go, this was not of my deserving, I didn’t kill anybody... As I thought I reached an exit something would keep pulling onto me, my brother would not let me leave this place. Was this the feeling of guilt? Should I have hid the bodies better? If only I did I wouldn’t be getting tortured by a figment of my imagination of a brother I once loved. These regrets would mean nothing as it is something I could not change. I thought I planned everything better, a way to escape from this horrid family. Even after taking the lives of my family, I still could not be satisfied with this outcome of guilt and regret.

For even now, as I sit in this cold, dimly lit room, I can hear the whispers—the whispers of the shadowy figure of guilt that lurks just beyond the walls, waiting to claim me as its own. And as I stare into the darkness, I know that my fate is sealed—that I am destined to wander the halls of this place for all eternity, trapped in a nightmare from which there is no escape. Maybe I did deserve this.