Look at you. Sitting there, listening, asking all the right questions.
What was the GA's role in the incident?
Where is my dad, if he isn't dead?
Am I still possessed?
For this one, the short answer is—
You actually thought I was going to tell you.
You're more delusional than I am.
I genuinely believed the GA was an actual guardian angel. Years. It took me years to figure that out. Adult intelligence should've kicked in on time, but apparently mine missed the memo. You know that thing where you're smart, but all you do is dumb? Whatever that's called. That's me. The embodiment of it.
I can explain space, time, trigonometry, neutrons, protons—any science rubbish you want. A bit of art too, if you insist. But ask me something simple, like whether I like boys or girls or both or neither, and suddenly my brain evaporates. Oblivious in life. Especially my own.
Enough of that. There were more pressing issues.
My mum, Kai, and I were hospitalised.
My dad wasn't.
He was already dead, so his was an autopsy.
Poisoning.
That was why Kai screamed my name at the party—why he knocked the glass out of my hand before I could sip the champagne. The waiter had come straight from Zach. It was meant for my stepdad. For me too, probably.
That cunt tried to kill me.
Why?
I asked myself that question for a long time and never got an answer. I have one now, but it doesn't sit right. Still, I feel bad. Poor lad. Whisked away like nothing.
Wait a second!
I'm only now just realising it's not as if he can answer for himself. He isn't with us anymore. He's been removed from the group chat of existence—less of a presence, more of a rumour. And just like that, he drifted out of my narrative, like dust caught in a wayward gust.
Unfortunate, really. But destiny does love its theatrics.
Am I enjoying this?
Probably.
See, I didn't kill Zach. Not me me. Possessed me did. And if you do the maths, it was most likely possessed me who killed the M girl too, so—
I want to feel bad for both of them. Truly, I do. But I can't bring myself to blame myself. Hell, I don't wanna. I'm not obliged to give a damn about their demise.
Period.
People don't casually float. They don't stop bullets with air. They don't bleed black, viscous sludge from their eyes, thick and slow like something that forgot how gravity works. And they certainly aren't supposed to murder the ones closest to their hearts.
And that wasn't even the worst of it.
The aftermath came later.
The dreams.
Not dreams, actually. Nightmares.
No—more like visions.
In this vision, I'm being pulled by two guys in a mask, one taller than the other. Yeah, that's all I know about it. Although I doubt it was masks, pretty sure they were faceless. The dream would always start with me in an elevator, and they'd always wait outside for me, so that immediately I walked out, the taller one would immediately grip my right arm, which all his might and then kick my right knee, which would get me down on one knee as the other would eventually collapse for balance.
Then the shorter guy injects me with a syringe containing whatever had the ability to paralyze already destabilized me from the neck down. They'd then pull my lifeless but wake body across what I call the hallway of terror.
I screamed uncontrollably until eventually gagged and forced to look at the ruins which had become the frantically unfamiliar, but soon to be familiar hallway.
There were dead bodies, not really bodies, but skeletons, blood stained walls and floors too. Above me was a vent which was open, the cover rusted and blood sipping through like a leaking pipe, and a head dangling, meaning the kill was still fresh, although there were no more eyes. Neither were there teeth, nor tongue for that matter.
The scariest part was the way every light bulb I was dragged past burst, leaving a loop of darkness behind me.
Men, I know you nappers ain't afraid of the dark, but I'm terrified, and I'm not even allowed to scream. Damn that's cold even for a dream.
They eventually reach a door, bloodstained, as the body of someone wearing a white T-shirt and a heart ❤️ drawn on it, lay dead in front of the door. Symbolic, maybe. Spooky, very much so.
The door is open and I'm met with a terrible stench (very foul odor) and an even worse sight. It was like a freezer where dead bodies were cut and used for some sort of ritualistic practices, hence the knife, the runes or whatever markings were on the walls and floor. I quivered as the chills from the freezer ran down my skin on which goosebumps were already active.
The shot guy pushed me to the floor and as he was about to step me, I felt any reasonable person that is paralyzed from the neck down in a dream would do, I woke up. I woke up to a bed soaked with sweat.
There is, there was I dont know anymore, but something's up with the dream or me. But I just can't put my finger in it. I was always left so spooked, leading to a shout so loud that the nurses always came to check on me, and when at home, my mom. I'd cover myself in my blankets and pray to a God I didn't even believe in, hoping that a miracle of some sort would happen.
Although I got better control over how I woke up. It repeated itself countlessly so I was forced to recognize patterns.
I know you might think that it's a bit of a lie for me to know this much details. Like my dream is being staged, but like I said, it's less of a dream, it's less of a nightmare, but more of a vision. Because the same dream happens every single day after the party till now. It... it still lingers and I can feel it in my bones. And it felt like i was being monitored. Like... like any wrong move and I'm done for.
Do I still have the dream? No, not really. Not after the... Not after another incident. Pretty much like the previous one. More intense, but that's a story for another day. As of now, I need to focus more. I need to actually tell you guys what happened to my mother and my best friend in and after the hospital.