"Where is Maria?" I asked, my voice trembling, almost a hiss. "Answer me."
The man just sat there, hands folded neatly on the table. No hint of shock on his face—as if he had known this moment would come.
"I'm asking you one more time." My voice rose. "WHERE IS MARIA!?"
I stood up, pushing the chair back so hard it nearly toppled over. "WHAT HAPPENED TO ME!? WHAT HAPPENED TO MARIA!?"
I grabbed the edge of the table, clutching it like I could shake the answers out of his throat. "You... you know, don't you? Don't just sit there! THEY SAID IT WAS AN ACCIDENT! THEY SAID—I HAD TO GO TO HER!"
My throat burned dry. Breathing, ragged. The world spun. My chest tightened.
But he... remained calm.
I wanted to destroy something. This table. That chair. The wall.
Myself.
But suddenly, there was nothing left to scream.
My voice broke, then fell silent.
My hands dropped. I sat back down—not by choice, but because my knees could no longer hold me.
This room… was too quiet.
And then, finally, he spoke.
"Now you've calmed down, Ray."
I looked down. My eyes fixed on the floor, but I didn't really see it.
"I know you're confused. But please, let me explain," he said gently, like a father trying to speak honestly to a child who's cried too long in silence.
"You're in a hospital. It's been a week since… the incident."
I frowned. "What incident?"
He took a quiet breath.
"You hit your own head. Repeatedly. Against the metal bar at the end of your hospital bed. Until it bled."
I looked at him, slowly. My eyes narrowed.
"That... was yesterday, wasn't it?"
He shook his head.
"That… was a week ago, Ray."
A week?
The word felt foreign. Long. Unreal.
I stared at my trembling hands.
As if my body hadn't caught up with the time I had lost.
"I… I don't remember anything," I whispered.
And in the silence that followed, I knew—
The world I had just been running through…
Might not have been real.
And Maria…
I didn't know where she was.
Or if she even still...
I couldn't finish the thought.
But from the way he looked at me, I knew—
There was a truth he hadn't yet told me.
And it was darker than anything I had already heard.
"I feel like I'm being played," I murmured.
I didn't even know who I was speaking to.
Myself? The man across the table? Or the voice hiding somewhere between my pulse and the cracks in my mind?
But the feeling was real—though I couldn't name its source.
As if all this… was fake.
Or worse: real, but wrong.
The psychiatrist tilted his head slightly, his gaze too patient to be comforting.
"Ray," he said, "why don't we begin today's session? Slowly. No rush."
I stared at him in silence. My breath still unsteady. My heart still beating to a foreign rhythm.
I stood. My steps were heavy, but deliberate.
"Ray?" he called, his voice rising half a note. "Please, sit back down. You need this."
I didn't answer.
"You… need to be fixed."
That phrase cut into me like a knife wrapped in a professional smile.
Fixed.
As if I were a broken machine.
I clenched my jaw. Didn't look back. But my steps quickened. One—two—three—until the chair scraped and hurried footsteps followed.
"Ray! Wait!"
My hand touched the door handle.
"Why are you running again?"
Again.
The word hit my chest like a hammer.
I stopped.
For a moment, silence answered. My hand still on the handle, eyes unmoving on the cool, cracked wood.
Again?
Had I run before? From whom? From what?
The questions danced in my mind—but none brought answers.
I turned, slowly.
Our eyes met.
But this time, it wasn't just confusion in mine. There was suspicion.
Something I didn't understand—yet was beginning to grasp, faintly.
But I didn't return.
I opened the door, and left.
Strangely... there was no fog.
No endless white corridor. No shapeshifting doors, no faces that knew my name.
Just... an ordinary road. Cold asphalt. Fading evening air.
The sky hung grey, like the sweat of a storm that hadn't arrived.
And even stranger—I knew the way home.
My feet moved without hesitation. Down the cracked sidewalk I somehow remembered. Crossing streets with traffic lights that felt familiar.
Through an alley between two shops—I didn't even recall memorizing it.
"Why do I know this?" I whispered.
The fastest route home.
From an office I thought was unfamiliar.
My hands curled into fists.
And for the first time…
I wasn't scared because I didn't know where I was—
I was scared because I knew too much about a place that should be foreign.
The house was the same.
I walked across the porch like déjà vu polished by evening wind. And when the door opened—my world stopped.
"Ray!"
Maria.
She ran to me, her body whole, her smile bright like a sun that never dimmed. No bandages. No wounds. Just her—warm, alive, real.
I froze. My lips parted, but no sound came out.
Then Mother came, hugging me tight. Father stood behind her, regret written across his face.
"Ray, we're sorry," Mother said. "Everything you heard… about Maria… it was a lie."
"WHAT?" I whispered, barely audible.
"We... we lied. Maria's fine. She was never in an accident," Father said softly. "We just… we didn't expect you to react like that."
Maria looked down, then stepped closer. Her hand gently grasped mine.
"I only wanted to surprise you, Ray," she whispered. "A little gift. I thought… if you believed I was hurt, maybe you'd appreciate me more."
Tears flowed without warning.
"I... I thought I lost you," I said, my voice breaking. "I thought… it was all over..."
Maria cried. "I didn't know you'd blame yourself... I didn't know you'd... hurt yourself."
We cried together.
Mother and Father joined the embrace—a family reborn from wounds.
Soft laughter began to weave through the tears. Warm. Gentle. Real.
Yet inside me... something felt off.
I searched through that laughter. Through the hug. Through the ticking clock.
Why couldn't I remember anything from that entire week?
Not a single image. Not a single sound. As if the world had deleted me for a while… then returned me without reason.
But I thought… never mind.
This happiness felt real. Maria's laughter was real. Mother's smile, Father's voice… they all felt alive.
And so I gave in.
Letting myself drown.
For just one night… I chose to believe.
I fell asleep in my bed, wearing the calmest smile I'd ever known.
And when I opened my eyes again…
I was on a tattered couch, in a damp, empty building that reeked of mildew.
Cracked ceiling. Graffiti-covered walls.
On the table before me: white powder. Syringes. Small bottles. Torn wrappers.
My heart pounded wildly.
What... is this?
I looked at my arm—faint marks from needles. A small bruise.
Since when...?
I stood, staggering. My head felt like the world had crashed into it.
But the strangest thing...
I didn't panic.
I fixed my clothes. Grabbed my bag.
Then left. Walking the morning streets that hadn't fully awakened.
School awaited, and I walked there—as if everything… was normal.
Because that's how it felt.
Nothing had happened.
Because... I felt that way.
And that's what terrified me most. I didn't even understand why I felt like that.
After all... why did I feel like something had happened?
School was as usual.
I walked past the gates, across the field bathed in pale sunlight. Children laughed. The bell echoed. The classroom welcomed me with chalk dust, paper, and collective boredom.
I sat at my desk.
The teacher arrived—a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes that had never been truly kind.
"Good morning, class."
She wrote numbers on the board, formulas floating in the air. I watched her—and something inside me trembled.
All of this…
was too familiar.
Her chalk strokes. Her tone. Even the window half-open at the back.
Was this déjà vu? Or...
My pocket vibrated.
I looked down. Picked up my phone.
A message.
From Dad.
"Leave class now, I'll explain to your teacher later. Your sister got in an accident on her way to school this morning."
My hands shook.
I looked at the screen, then at the board.
My teacher's voice continued flowing.
"Ray, please answer number four."
I stood up, slowly.
"Excuse me, Miss," I said. My tone flat, calm, too familiar.
"I have to leave."
Her eyes narrowed. Her face... wasn't unfamiliar.
"Sit down, Ray. Class isn't over."
I stared at her. And for a moment—her face... shifted.
Like a mask thinning. Like someone who had said the exact same words to me before.
My voice cracked. But it wasn't full of emotion.
"I'd like to be excused."
All eyes turned to me.
Silence.
My fingers began to tremble.
Just like before.
Exactly the same.
The teacher approached, her voice softening—too soft.
"What is it this time, Ray? Your father murdered? Your mother poisoned? Your sister in an accident?"
I stared at her, blankly.
As if watching a play whose ending I already knew.
My voice was almost a whisper.
"How do you..."
She fell silent. But all the faces around me still watched like this was a show.
I turned away.
And walked out.
My steps heavy. The world no longer felt like a world. Those faces, those voices—too familiar, too designed.
And inside me, a small voice began to ask:
Is this a dream?
Or...
Am I still in that room? Still sitting in front of that psychiatrist?
The sky outside was overcast.
My phone vibrated again.
A new message.
"Hurry here, Maria needs you."
I stopped.
Staring at the sky rolling grey like shattered memory.
One second.
Two seconds.
Then I ran.
But this time, I no longer knew what I was chasing.
And I didn't know if this world was mine,
or just a reflection of a wound that never healed.
I just kept running without direction.
But somehow, my footsteps brought me back—
to the psychiatrist's office.