I remember like it was yesterday.
I had received the long-awaited acceptance letter from the University of Aramon. Though it's embarrassing to admit, I remember jumping all around the house that day out of excitement. All those hours of constant studies had paid off.
The letter demanded me to select my major as soon as possible and answer to them. I stopped jumping and looked behind.
My brother, Jacob, he was jumping with a smile brighter than mine, even though he had no clue what just transpired. My happiness is all the reason he needed to be happy.
I knew the exact major I was going to choose.
Five years passed. I graduate Summa Cum Laude with a degree in Psychiatry. Many of my professors and peers called me the next coming of Sir Benjamin Conners.
But I knew better… I knew how under-qualified I was to even be close to his level. Else, I would have healed my brother already.
Even before I could apply, an offer came from Benjamin Conners Psychiatric Clinic. I was not too surprised, considering my successful internship there.
Nevertheless, I had the urge to dance and jump around my house again. But the five years of studying and practising psychiatry affected my mind and emotions.
Still, I had a bright smile on my face the entire day. Benjamin Conners Psychiatric Clinic was more than just a dispensary, it was a place of medical and psychiatric research.
Jacob's health was smile was deteriorating day by day. Worse—he was beginning to lose his greatest asset—his smile.
I needed to come up with a cure, and
I joined BCPC. Newbies were not allowed to do research. They must have at least a couple of years looking after and treating mental patients before getting permission and funds to do so.
I was a man of sheer determination… someone terribly afraid of losing his little brother. I used my expertise and connections to get an early permission. As for the funds, I worked overtime.
Research—it was anything but fun, especially when you have a time bomb. But I went at it, despite the little results.
Years passed. Jacob's condition only got worse. He even lost the little ability to speak he had. As for the results of my research? I had… nothing.
Then, I discovered something. A few of the mentally ill or challenged people have, in some phase of their life, suffered from a physical trauma on their head.
It hit me. Maybe it was not the psyche, but the physique—the brain!
I changed my research. I gathered all my evidences and findings and proposed my theory—along with the term 'Cerebropsychiatry'—to the director.
I still remember his laugh. 'This is bullshit,' he said. I urged, pleaded, even begged to permit me to research on preserved brains.
I failed. After all, it was more profitable to sell such organs to the black market. Alas, it is something I learned much later. I wish I had know of such markets at that time.
I lost all hope. Jacob was bedridden. I submitted a request for a long term leave of absence to spend time with Jacob. In case they rejected, I had a letter of resignation ready.
My request was accepted, and I did what I needed to do—accompanying Jacob. Soon, the inevitable came.
Jacob… my brother… he was no more.
That day, I had lost a piece of me. After I was done with the funeral, I stepped out of the house and began to wander aimlessly through the empty streets of Aramon.
Were they empty though? Or was I just too absent minded? After all, 'empty' doesn't go well with 'Aramon'.
This was how my days went—either lying in home, reminiscing about home, or wandering aimlessly to relieve the pain. All the psychology tricks I had learned felt as if they were for naught.
I felt like giving up psychiatry, or anything for that matter. I was a failure—someone incapable of even protecting his own little brother.
I picked up my already written resignation and coursed to the clinic. But right outside, I watched a middle aged lady.
Following that lady were two boys. The older one looked fine—talking with his mother normally. As for the one who looked younger, he had a short neck, small head, flattened face, and slanted eyes. He looked like my brother… he was facing the same condition as that of my brother.
A second later, the older boy wrapped his arm around the younger boy's neck and smiled at him. The nervousness on the little boy's face disappeared, and what replaced it was a smile—a smile that was too familiar for me.
I rushed to the clinic, throwing the scrunched up resignation letter into the bin outside. I might have been unable to save my own little brother. But I couldn't let all the older brothers out there easily lose theirs.
My practice of psychiatry continued. I looked after the patients and continued my research.
Years passed. And finally, came that fateful day.
I was on night duty, working at my office. I heard footsteps coming from outside and soon, the door opened. It was an old man—a psyche patient that had been recently admitted by the Detectivete.
He had a surgical knife in his hand. I was frightened. His eyes met mine. He was looking right into my eyes—piercing through them.
I resisted my urge to scream. Such sudden actions would only aggravate the patient. I slowly stood up from my chair, and secretly held the closest sharp object I could find—a pair of scissors.
The old man walked to me—slowly, his brown eyes locked to mine. My plan was to run the opposite direction when he circled around the desk.
Soon, he reached the front of the table. I readied myself. If he came from the left, I would run right and if he came from the right, I would run left.
ραпdα nᴏνɐ| сom But he did neither. What he did was beyond my wildest expectations. He jumped, with the knife in his hand coming at me.
I ducked, subconsciously hurling my armed hand up. It hit something. Something wet dripped onto my suit. A metallic smell hit my nostrils. The scissor I was holding tightly began to oscillate, and soon—everything came to a still.
I looked up. The old man was silent, his eyes still looking dead in mine. The scissor was pierced into his throat, fresh blood dripping out of it. The warm blood dripped on my face.
My brain tried to process everything, but it went haywire. When I finally composed myself, only one phrase popped in my mind—that I was a killer.
And soon, another thought came to my mind. Patients had gone missing before, and the one I just killed reported slaughtered all of his family. So he had nobody to turn to.
I looked at his head. It would be a waste to let go of that brain.
In the next years, a few more psyche patients disappeared—all with existing criminal records. And my research advanced at an unbelievable pace.
Soon, all the criminals disappeared. Having no choice, I started to go after the old patients who had no family. And soon, I ran out of them.
Somewhere along that timeline, I turned into a monster.
I then hunted for patients with specific mental diseases—regardless of their age and past. But I never went for youths.
And a time came when the higher ups became suspicious. Too many patients had disappeared. The detectivete began investigations.
I was scared. I should have controlled myself. The detectives were closing on to me. I was sure I would be captured.
And that's when 'they' introduced themselves. It was in a dream.
Not only 'they' promised me to protect me from this mess, they also promised me constant supply of fresh brains and everything I needed for my research.
Desperate, I accepted their help. I was too worried to think of the cost that would come with it.
Soon, I was out of the mess. A fellow psychiatrist was arrested. He even admitted to all the crimes. I became aware of the 'their' power. I was scared.
They ordered me to resign and shift to Derbury. I complied.
They ordered me to open a psychiatric facility to make a cover, I complied.
They ordered me to steal a certain vase from the gallery, I complied.
I still remember the day five years ago when it climbed up from the vase. It was a monster that defied everything common sense. But strangely, I wasn't afraid. I felt more 'connected' with the tall shadowy being.
Maybe, it was the connection that 'monsters' shared. 'They' told me it was mine. I could order it to do anything. But I had no intentions of experimenting with it. Hence, I ordered it to go back.
Soon, I met her—Trisha. She was anything but ordinary. She was… something else. Whenever I walked and talked to her, it reminded me of the days when I still had a family. I did not fell alone or burdened anymore.
And then, her father proposed a marriage between us.
I had no intentions of accepting it. The last thing I would want was for someone I love to be tied up to a monster.
But…
A marriage would be a good cover to what I am doing, right?
A day would come when everything is over and I get back my peaceful life back, right?
A time will come when I can cure the world of mental illness and grow old with her, right?
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