PROLOGUE
NOTE- This story may seem confusing because the tone and writing style are deliberately kept that way. In the end, all confusion will be gone
Prologue
The house was quiet. Too quiet for a place that had once echoed with laughter, with promises, with the soft hum of love. Now it breathed only shadows.
Maya’s hands trembled as she wiped the blood from her skin. Not from fear—no, fear had left her long ago—but from something deeper, a fracture inside her that had finally broken open.
Her husband lay still on the floor, his eyes glassy, his lips parted as if words had died before reaching them. In that silence, Maya felt an unfamiliar calm, as though the chaos in her mind had been silenced with him.
But the calm was fragile. She knew it wouldn’t last. Cracks always spread.
And soon, someone would notice.
The room smelled faintly of iron and burnt wax. Maya’s hands shook as she set the knife down on the counter, its blade slick and red beneath the dim light. She stared at the body, at the finality of it, then slowly reached for the phone.
Her fingers dialed the numbers with practiced hesitation, pausing just enough to make it sound unsteady. When the dispatcher’s voice answered, she drew in a jagged breath.
“H-he’s… he’s not moving,” she whispered, her voice breaking into sobs. “Please… I don’t… I don’t remember what happened. I think I hurt him. I think I—” Her words dissolved into a choked wail.
She dropped the phone beside the body and cradled her head in both hands, rocking slightly, rehearsing the madness she needed them to see.
Minutes later, sirens cut through the rain. By the time the officers forced the door open, Maya was already outside, collapsed on the wet ground. Her hair clung to her face, her lips trembling as she repeated the same broken refrain:
“I don’t remember… I don’t remember…”
The police didn’t see a killer. They saw a shattered woman, drowning in grief and confusion.
By the time she was led away in cuffs, her eyes had gone glassy, her voice hoarse from repetition. She no longer pleaded innocence. Instead, she clung to her chosen mask — the fractured memory, the gaps in her mind. The doctors would say trauma. The officers would say insanity.
And so the story began not with blood, but with silence — and with a woman who knew that sometimes the sharpest weapon of all was forgetting.
