I couldn't believe my ears. According to the old man, I was the one killing all those transfer students. It didn't make sense. I didn't feel capable of killing anyone. I had never desired to take someone's life.
"Why would I do such a thing?" I asked the doctor and myself simultaneously.
The doctor sighed. "That's what we've been trying to figure out all this time."
Suddenly, a cold sensation swept over me, causing my entire body to spasm. "Are you sure it was me... who...?" I couldn't complete the sentence properly; my lips were trembling.
"Colin, look at me," the doctor said, attempting to calm me down instead of answering my question. "Take a deep breath."
"I don't need to take breaths. I just need to know what exactly happened!"
"If you don't lower your voice, we'll have to end this session," the doctor warned, giving me a stern look.
I swallowed my curses and restrained myself.
"Your problems are complex. We need to systematically work through several layers of delusions. Don't worry, we'll eventually figure everything out."
"Can't we figure it out now?" I almost yelled at him again but stopped myself at the last moment. If I wanted answers, I had to be patient.
"Your parents will visit you tomorrow. That should make you feel better," the doctor gave me a reassuring smile, and left after thoroughly cleaning his glasses.
At this point, I wasn't sure if anything could make me feel better.
The next day, two burly men arrived to escort me to the visitation room. They not only left handcuffs on me but also shackled my legs, making it nearly impossible to move. As we walked through the hospital halls at the speed of a lame duck, I observed the surroundings and realized that I was indeed in a high-security facility. It resembled what I imagined as a concept of "prison-lite."
The visitation room was divided by metal bars in the middle. A sign on the wall warned that the bars were electrically charged and should not be touched under any circumstances.
I immediately recognized my parents sitting on the other side of the room. My mother appeared teary-eyed.
"Colin, honey, you're alive!" she exclaimed upon seeing me.
My father gazed at me with genuine affection and sighed.
If I hadn't been charged with mass murder and confined to a hospital for the criminally insane, I would have been ecstatic. My parents not only noticed me but also... seemed to love me.
"Hi," I awkwardly greeted them and took a seat on the hard bench.
"How are you doing, son?" my father asked.
"As good as one might expect," I replied, not intending to sound sarcastic; it was genuinely how I felt.
"Good, good... Are you eating well?"
I nodded.
"Doctor Greene mentioned some memory issues, but you remember us, right?"
"Doctor Greene?" I furrowed my brow.
"Yes, your doctor. He's been so helpful all this time and never lost hope that you'll recover completely. Wouldn't you like that?"
I nodded again, recalling my middle school teacher, Mrs. Greene, and wondering if she was real or merely a part of my delusion. Had my brain somehow conflated my doctor with my teacher? Or was it just a coincidence?
"You want to come home, don't you? Then you need to cooperate with your treatment," my father added.
"How's the cat doing?" I asked after a long pause, realizing that I didn't even know what kind of people my parents were. I had no knowledge of their interests, jobs, or the kind of life they had. All of this vital information eluded me.
My parents exchanged glances.
"What cat?"
"Never mind," I guessed that I had somehow created that cat in my imagination, too. I had no idea why, but then again, I wasn't a psychiatrist.
"Do you remember the day we went to the zoo for your seventh birthday?" my mother asked.
I shook my head.
"You said you wanted a pet at that time."
"I did?"
"Yes, but we didn't think you were mature enough to handle the responsibility. Once you come back home, we'll get you a cat, okay?" My mother looked at me again, tears welling up in her eyes.
I nodded. I never actually liked that imaginary British short-hair, but perhaps a real one would be different.
In the evening, the chatty nurse gave me another sponge bath. She even trimmed my hair and shaved my stubble.
"You're such a good boy! So pretty I could eat you up!"
I remained quiet, avoiding eye contact. She didn't seem to mind.
"Tomorrow, you can finally return to your regular room! Isn't that nice?"
I nodded, not understanding what she meant by "regular room," but I hoped it meant I could stop using a bag to urinate and finally be able to wash myself.
The room turned out to be more like a cell, which didn't surprise me. It contained a bed, a basin, a toilet, and even a poster on the wall. The poster depicted a boy band I didn't recognize. I had no idea why it was hanging in my so-called room, but I left it there to give the place some personality.
Inside the room, I didn't have to wear cuffs, so things were looking up.
There was nothing for me to do, but time seemed to pass quickly—almost too quickly. One moment, I would look out of the tiny window, and the next moment, six hours had elapsed, and it was time to take my medication.
I took everything without questioning it. I genuinely wanted to get better. Besides, I discovered that taking or not taking the pills had no effect on how I felt. So, I might as well be a model patient.
I had a private session with Doctor Greene once a week. To my disappointment, we mostly discussed trivial matters. The doctor would ask about my favorite color or if I enjoyed my breakfast. Eventually, I couldn't bear it any longer.
"When can we talk about... the incidents?" I inquired.
The doctor gave me a serious look. "Are you ready to discuss what happened?"
I nodded.
"Which case would you like to discuss?"
I pondered his question for a while. I wasn't even certain if what I "remembered" had any connection to reality, so I didn't know where to begin. Finally, I cautiously asked, "Did someone fall out of a window?"
The doctor neither denied nor confirmed it. Instead, he frowned and said, "I'm glad your memories are returning, but it seems we're back at square one. You still don't accept any responsibility for what happened?"
"I honestly don't believe I would have pushed anyone to their death, if that's what you're implying," I managed to articulate a coherent thought.
"Why do you think that?"
"Because I'm not that kind of person."
"What kind of person are you?"
I was momentarily stumped. I genuinely didn't know what kind of person I was.
"I am... not a killer. That's what I know," I finally asserted.
"How do you know that?" The doctor's tone now held a hint of hostility.
"Okay," I replied, also becoming angry. "How do YOU know that you're not a killer?"
"No need to be like that, Colin. I'm not your enemy," he evaded giving a direct answer again.
"Let's suppose I did kill all those students. What would be my motive? Did I dislike them? Were they bullying me?" I refused to let the issue go.
"Weren't they ignoring you?"
Upon hearing that, I had a coughing fit.
"Should we end it here for today?" Doctor Greene asked with concern.
I shook my head.
"They... weren't. They were the only ones who didn't ignore me."
"That was merely your wish, Colin. But it clashed with reality, so you resorted to extreme measures to make them acknowledge you."
"What? I mean... WHAT?" This reasoning made no sense. "How would killing them make them notice me?"
"That's an excellent question, Colin. I think we've made a breakthrough today! Now you need some rest. We shouldn't overwhelm your psyche." The doctor seemed unusually pleased.
But I wasn't happy at all.
This man expected me to believe that I had killed people in gruesome ways simply because they didn't acknowledge me. In my mind, I had spent my entire life in a reality where I was habitually ignored. If I were capable of killing, wouldn't I have killed... everyone? Yet, I had never felt the slightest urge to harm someone.
Perhaps I didn't know my favorite book or movie, and perhaps my character was as unremarkable as plain bread, but I was still certain that I wasn't a killer. I wasn't going to let some old man convince me otherwise.
"So you would rather believe in a fairy tale than face the actual reality?" the doctor asked during our next session, as I expressed my frustration.
"Who is the judge determining what counts as reality?" I retorted.
"The literal judge. The one who sentenced you. Moreover, the police found plenty of evidence, including video recordings of your... actions. Shall I continue?"
I had nothing to say to that except, "Can I see those recordings?"
The doctor raised an eyebrow. "That could certainly help you confront reality. However, your condition is still highly unstable. I'll request the recordings once more of your memories return."
"What if my memories don't return?"
"It's highly unlikely," the doc smiled.
"How can you be so sure?" I asked.
"Because however hard you try to run away from the truth, it will sooner or later catch up with you," With that enigmatic statement hanging in the air, the session ended, leaving me with more questions than ever before.