Trust

Fear isn’t something you’re born with. For fear is just the essence of distant memories you wish you could forget, like a forest fire been extinguished, leaving you with only the roots of the past that scar you for life. You wouldn’t know, but I do. True fear is what strange memories sprout into, and not just the flowers that you see in your neighbor’s garden on a July evening. It haunts me like a murderer in the shadows of my childhood, fusing with dreams and wishes so no one knows what’s what anymore. Was it a reality, or a mere desire? I didn’t even know myself anymore. I just hoped that it wouldn’t be more than my early life that tore and corrupted me. Once upon a time, everything was perfect. But then, it came. Then it made me watch my whole world slip away, crumbling beneath my feet.

2 months earlier

The world is spinning, and I have to hold my head in my hands as I cry and fall to my knees. The thrashing and banging in my head are almost too much to bear, and I have no control over what I’m doing. The pain only grows and the violent loudness forces me to cover my ears. I hear screaming. Agonizing screams. I’d grown so used to not hearing them lately, that I forgot how torturously ear-splitting they were.

Slowly, the banging fades and dies down and I’m left in total tranquillity. I let a calming blackness fill my vision, and the suffering subsides. All I know in this instant is darkness. It’s my only comfort. No people to make me uncomfortable. No rumors. No whispering. Only me.

Only me.

I feel an odd sense of serenity. At peace with myself, even though I’m not truly in control of my own body. Willingly trapped inside my mind.

I don’t remember the rest.

The next thing I can recall is the blaze of white light above me, a needle in my neck containing some sort of blue liquid. I hear a constant beep coming from some sort of screen beside me, and I feel dizzy with my eyes blurred and eyelids heavy. I open my eyes fully and find three people talking beside my hospital bed. The first I recognize is my father. His face is livid, and it seems he’s trying not to explode. My mother stands silently next to him while he speaks to a doctor I don’t seem to know, her face white as a sheet and her lip quivering. If I strained my eyes a little harder, I could just make out some prominent bruises on her neck. I couldn’t say my curiosity didn’t increase. The doctor himself has a grim composure and rigid jaw, looking increasingly uncomfortable. He holds a sheet in his left hand, and in his right is a pen that he is consistently tapping against his thumb and pointer finger. I try to tune into the conversation between the two men through my haze.

“Amia Dabria, correct? 14 years old?” the doctor asks in a hushed voice, trying to remain calm. He seems like he would love to run out of this incredibly uncomfortable situation at any given opportunity.

“Yes, she’s too dangerous to keep around any longer,” father whispers harshly.

“It’s not Amia’s fault, Richard.” the doctor says professionally, though he seems to be struggling to keep a steady face.

“Amia is responsible for her actions-”

“But she can’t control anything about her when she’s in that…state.”

My mother cuts in, her hands shaking, “You mean, th-this could be a r-regular thing?” Her hands subconsciously go to rub her bruised neck.

The doctor shakes his head slowly, “Her timings are unreliable. You should remain cautious of her schizophrenia.”

“Her what now?” My father almost yells, getting more obviously frustrated.

“Amia’s…well…irregularly psychotic.”

I couldn’t control the gasp that escaped my mouth. I was…I was…

Thankfully, no one heard it.

“WHAT?! I thought we were out of this fiasco when she was a baby! They told us that the possibility of this had gone! The medic said-”

“The medic was wrong, and I don’t even see any reports of any sort of behaviour like this in her records.” the doctor argued, “And unless you want to suggest that what happened to your wife was mistaken to be your child, and you want to own up to making those large punctures on her neck, I suggest you sort that with the court.”

He drew out that last word, emphasizing it to tell my father that he was being entirely serious. There was something wrong with me. Seriously wrong.

What happened? At that point, my body took over. Several worried and concerned heads turned to face me, but I was more focused on something else right now. My mother’s been strangled.

I sat up and stared down at my lap in utmost horror, wide-eyed and trembling.

And the blood was on my hands.