It had been half a year since the doc had promised me to retrieve those tapes.
My life had become a series of routines. I wasn't unhappy, but I wasn't happy either. The doc kept assuring me of progress, but I felt stuck. There seemed to be no way out; my real world turned out to be even smaller than the one I had imagined. Back there, I couldn't leave my city. Here, I couldn't even leave my tiny cell. Back there, nobody paid attention to me, and I could do whatever I wanted. Here, I was monitored 24/7 and mostly had nothing to do but stare out the window.
Perhaps the doc was right, and I had created a complex web of delusions to shield myself from despair. I still couldn't understand why I hadn't managed to create a better situation for myself.
Then, out of the blue, a portion of my "real" memories came back. It happened one of those nights when the overly friendly nurse paid me a visit. During her late shift, she would slip into my cell and gently coerce me to lie quietly while she sat on top of me and rubbed against my crotch.
"You're such a good boy," she would whisper repeatedly, her hot breath tickling my neck. I would awkwardly lie there, gazing at the ceiling, unsure of what else to do.
Afterward, she would give me a piece of candy, or sometimes even a whole chocolate bar. I didn't have a sweet tooth, but receiving gifts was a pleasant feeling.
However, one night things didn't go as expected. Lost in my thoughts, the sensation of another body on top of me felt hazy and unclear. It was as if it wasn't even happening to me. Suddenly, my consciousness snapped back into my body due to a sharp pain in my rear.
Unintentionally, I let out a whimper. The nurse swiftly covered my mouth and whispered, "Hush, bear with it for a bit, okay? Be a good quiet little boy. It will feel better soon."
But it didn't get better. Instead, the pain gradually spread. I tried to escape from the woman who was now forcefully pressing down on my throat. However, there was little I could do to improve my situation since she had somehow handcuffed me to the bed beforehand.
Waves of pain surged through my body and exploded in my brain. And at that moment, one of the long-forgotten faces of a "newbie" emerged in my memory. He lay in front of me on the ground while I held a metal pipe, slowly driving it into his chest. He stared at me with horror, attempting to say something, but only wheezing sounds escaped his throat.
My hands continued to press on the pipe, unaffected by the pleading look in his eyes. The guy spat out blood, some of which splattered onto my clothes. At that point, I lost control and gave the final push that ended it all. Then, I knelt in front of the body, placing both hands on the patch of blood slowly seeping through the dead teenager's clothing. I wiped it onto my face and screamed.
"Quiet now! Don't wake the other patients!" A hard slap landed on my cheek. Realizing that I was no longer pinned down, I attempted to move, but it caused me intense pain. Looking around, I noticed that the nurse had vanished.
I lay there, unable to sleep or move until dawn broke. Not only because of the stabbing pain and the metallic smell of blood in the air, but also because I relived the terrifying images my brain had conjured. I now remembered clearly what had happened, yet simultaneously, I recalled the alternative version of events where I had merely been a witness to the accident.
Which version was real?
Previously, I was 90% convinced of my complete innocence. But now, I couldn't be so sure. The entire night tormented me, and I dreaded the possibility that more memories might resurface, forcing me to relive such horrifying and absurd scenes.
For the next few days, I couldn't walk properly, and the doc came to visit me in my cell.
"The nurses informed me about your spontaneous bleeding due to your previous injuries," the doctor said, peering at me over his glasses. "Is that what happened?"
"I suppose," I replied lifelessly.
"How are you feeling?"
"I... had a memory."
"Judging by your expression, it wasn't a pleasant one."
I remained silent, unwilling to discuss it.
"Will I have to stay here for the rest of my life?" I finally asked, the only question plaguing my mind.
The doctor sighed and rubbed his forehead. "It all depends on you. If your condition improves, if you confront your actions and understand why they were wrong, there's a chance, albeit a slim one, that you might... maybe leave this place."
"How high is that chance?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Let's just say it's not impossible. You have a long way to go, and your prognosis is unfavorable. Generally, people with your condition don't develop empathy even after years of treatment. But...
"What is my condition exactly?" I interrupted, an ominous premonition creeping over me.
"Psychopathy."
I couldn't help but laugh out loud. If I were a psychopath, wouldn't I feel like one?
"As I was saying..." the doctor coughed. "Your accident turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as it has had a... forgive me for sounding cynical... refreshing effect on your psyche. Yes, you've developed new layers of delusions, but your impulse control and emotional responses have improved. Treating delusional disorders is generally easier than addressing a personality disorder."
I shook my head.
"Now what? We'll continue these talks until, in the distant future, you decide that I'm better?" I asked, already aware of the answer.
"I won't need to make that decision. You yourself will know when you've improved. However, since you're making progress and your resurfacing memories elicit emotional responses, I believe you might be ready for group sessions," the doctor smiled.
"So I can share my experiences with other delusional psychopaths?" I sniped.
"So you can relearn socialization, Colin. Or do you feel you're not ready for that step yet?"
I shrugged.
"All right then, let's give it a try once you're able to walk better," the doctor rose to leave but suddenly turned back, his face filled with concern. "Colin... about your injuries..."
"What about them?" I awkwardly smiled.
"Did your memories make you feel like... harming yourself?" he asked cautiously, carefully choosing his words.
I shook my head, avoiding his gaze. I couldn't shake the feeling that he misunderstood me—I wasn't suicidal, nor was I homicidal. On the other hand, I wasn't an expert on myself, so what did I know?
A week later, as promised by the doctor, I joined the group therapy. I was the only one wearing handcuffs and shackles, which made it evident that I was the most dangerous psycho among the group.
We sat in a circle—coincidentally, resembling what I imagined an anonymous alcoholics' meeting would look like.
"It's my birthday today," declared a plump man sitting across from me. "So I get to share first."
The doctor smiled and nodded.
"I have decided what I will do once I leave here!" the man exclaimed, laughing happily, his eyes forming little crescent moons. "I will become a doctor."
"That's an excellent idea," the doctor laughed too.
"You'll be out of a job!" the plump man retorted.
"Indoor voice, Manny," the doctor reminded him, placing a finger to his lips.
"You're just jealous that I'll be a better doctor than you," the plump man replied, looking offended.
"Who else would like to share?" the doctor asked when the man finished outlining his plans to perform brain surgeries and transplant human hearts into dogs.
Next, a tiny frail woman volunteered. Softly, she disclosed that her sister had passed away, leaving her with no one else in the world to rely on. I felt a pang of sympathy for her—I knew the feeling of having no one in your corner all too well.
Each person proceeded to share their own stories—some sad, some happy, some banal, some of great significance.
I wondered if they were all murderers.
"Colin, do you have anything to say to the group?" the doctor inquired.
I shook my head, having nothing of interest to share. I was a boring psychopath.
"What do you have in your pocket?" the plump man suddenly asked me.
Startled, I took a moment to collect myself. It had been a long time since my accident, yet I still couldn't quite get used to being addressed directly by my name.
Looking down, I noticed a forgotten KitKat bar in my coat pocket. Unfortunately, due to the handcuffs, I couldn't retrieve it.
"It's candy. You can have it if you want," I offered, not without an ulterior motive. It was my way of demonstrating to the doctor that I was a generous person. A psychopath, for example, would be greedy and selfish in such a situation.
"Why does he get extra candy?" the plump man became angry instead of being grateful. "Do the rest of us get candy too?"
It turned out that nobody else received any candy. Under the doctor's inquisitive gaze, I lied and claimed that my parents had given it to me. I didn't want to get that nurse in trouble. Besides, having something that others didn't made me feel somewhat special, even a bit gleeful.
Although I ended up giving away my KitKat bar, I was confident I could acquire more.
For the following group session, I brought a large supply of candy and even shared my aspiration of becoming a veterinarian once I left the clinic. While speaking, I glanced discreetly at the doctor, hoping he understood that it implied my affinity for animals. A psychopath would never want to be a vet. Psychopaths enjoy hurting dogs.
My plan to exhibit my entirely non-threatening nature was progressing well, and with time, I began to enjoy these group sessions. I even informed my parents about making new friends, and they seemed genuinely happy for me.
No new memories resurfaced, and I decided not to dwell on the terrible things I may or may not have done. What mattered was that I would never repeat those actions.
However, this peaceful life full of hope didn't last long.
One day, as I arrived at the group session, the doctor introduced a new patient to the ward. The moment I laid eyes on him, my entire body started buzzing.
That face was unmistakably familiar.
And when he introduced himself, I knew I wasn't imagining things. Despite the passage of time and his current adult appearance, I could never forget that face.
It was Brian.
My Brian.