I rember like it was yesterday.
I had received the long-awaited acceptance letter from the University of Aramon. Though it's embarrassing to admit, I rember jumping all around the house that day out of excitent. All those hours of constant studies had paid off.
The letter demanded 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 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 ca 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 dical 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 co 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 ntal patients before getting permission and funds to do so.
I was a man of sheer determination… soone terribly afraid of losing his little brother. I used my expertise and connections to get an early permission. As for the funds, I worked overti.
Research—it was anything but fun, especially when you have a ti 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 sothing. A few of the ntally ill or challenged people have, in so phase of their life, suffered from a physical trauma on their head.
It hit . 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 rember his laugh. 'This is bullshit,' he said. I urged, pleaded, even begged to permit to research on preserved brains.
I failed. After all, it was more profitable to sell such organs to the black market. Alas, it is sothing I learned much later. I wish I had know of such markets at that ti.
I lost all hope. Jacob was bedridden. I submitted a request for a long term leave of absence to spend ti 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 ca.
Jacob… my brother… he was no more.
That day, I had lost a piece of . 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 ho, reminiscing about ho, 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—soone 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 sa 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 .
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, ca 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 t 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 —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 ca from the left, I would run right and if he ca from the right, I would run left.
But he did neither. What he did was beyond my wildest expectations. He jumped, with the knife in his hand coming at .
I ducked, subconsciously hurling my ard hand up. It hit sothing. Sothing wet dripped onto my suit. A tallic sll hit my nostrils. The scissor I was holding tightly began to oscillate, and soon—everything ca 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 ca 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.
Sowhere along that tiline, I turned into a monster.
I then hunted for patients with specific ntal diseases—regardless of their age and past. But I never went for youths.
And a ti ca when the higher ups beca suspicious. Too many patients had disappeared. The detectivete began investigations.
I was scared. I should have controlled myself. The detectives were closing on to . I was sure I would be captured.
And that's when 'they' introduced themselves. It was in a dream.
Not only 'they' promised to protect from this ss, they also promised 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 co with it.
Soon, I was out of the ss. A fellow psychiatrist was arrested. He even admitted to all the cris. I beca aware of the 'their' power. I was scared.
They ordered to resign and shift to Derbury. I complied.
They ordered to open a psychiatric facility to make a cover, I complied.
They ordered to steal a certain vase from the gallery, I complied.
I still rember 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 it was mine. I could order it to do anything. But I had no intentions of experinting with it. Hence, I ordered it to go back.
Soon, I t her—Trisha. She was anything but ordinary. She was… sothing else. Whenever I walked and talked to her, it reminded 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 soone 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 co when everything is over and I get back my peaceful life back, right?
A ti will co when I can cure the world of ntal illness and grow old with her, right?
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