Wait.

I pace. I wait. I pace again. I wait. The tremors in my hand have now reached my lower limbs, circulating, surfacing up and emanating as heat from my flushed cheeks. I impatiently tap my heel with the rhythmic chiming of the clock. I can’t wait any longer. If I were to teleport to the Medieval Ages, and I were to be exposed of any crime, I believe this is what torture in the hands of my fellow human beings would have felt like. I know how that may sound, dear reader. An impetuous allusion to a crime. Crime. When one hears of it, their blood coils, freezes to the very core. It’s strange really. How one associates negative connotations to a random word. A necklace might have a dozen meanings to any one of us. A necklace might symbolize a lovely, generous gift to one, but a bad, perilous thing to another. Who knows, one might choke the other with it, if the timing and the mood is right. It all depends on the tumult of emotions, rising up, and exploding, one after the other, like fireworks to celebrate something. Only the result would not be one that necessitates celebration. 

A knocking resounds in the house where I currently reside. It’s a nice, quaint little house, with minimal furnishings, and blood red walls. I like it. It grounds me, steels me for what’s about to come.

My long old friend enters the room, tugs up his hat and removes his coat, places each one on the coat hanger. He knows this place. Knows every nook and cranny. I don’t know whether or not I should feel comforted by that. 

He strides towards me now, briskly, intently. His frank blue eyes look at me now, crystal clear, free from any guilty conscience. You know deep down, whether or not someone is a good or a bad person. Some are able to tell so right away, before the person even opens their mouth to speak. Others find it more difficult. They want to see the good in everybody. Maybe that’s what makes them more susceptible to the maladies of others. 

“Frank, how are you feeling? Any better?” is his courteous, pre-emptive, predetermined response. Should I reply with something expected when asked with such a dull question? Small talk. I don’t like it. It only occurs when both parties either haven’t seen each other for a long time, so neither know what to say, so rely on the most basic, repetitive interlocution to get the conversation going, or they feign a sort of liking to the other, and in order to hide their true thoughts and sentiments, they latch onto the general introductions to guide them. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about this. It’s stupid. All of this is stupid. I want to go home. 

“Well?”

Oh. I must have not said anything back for a long time. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Something lodged in my throat. My hand reaches for it, feels the skin there. All of it is intact. Yet, why do I feel myself falling apart? Each cell, each organ, that builds me up, turning from the inside out? I don’t get it. I don’t understand anything. My mind troubles itself with feeble, trivial things, and then I end up destroyed by them, as one unsheathes itself from its protective armour, and stabs me, deeply, intently, and I, powerless, vulnerable, am forced to succumb to them, and am simply rendered useless, as I watch myself bleed inwardly. I must say something. Otherwise, that black figure standing at the corner of the room will attack me.

“Oh, always the same, I suppose. The usual.”

He’s not satisfied with the answer. He curls his lip in a tight line, his brows furrow, knit up against his well - defined, long forehead, full of a mass of intellectual organs. But his eyes. They are very telling. They are full of innate wisdom, like a well - written book, and they only impart such knowledge when the other party is willing to receive it. Not everyone likes to hear smart people talk. It makes them feel dumber. So they argue back, and, since they’re not smart, only nonsense comes out of their mouth. The sad thing is, they’re not very self - aware, so they don’t realise it. Some people would be smart, very smart, book smart, their brains stored with all kinds of useless facts and idioms, being cooked and baked at the right temperature, and when one is hungry for some useless knowledge, the oven dings, and they readily give out such information. We associate this with common, everyday language. But the emotions. They erase all that is smart, all that is deemed mature, about someone, and turns them into this dumb, stupid thing. We let our emotions master us, our actions, our behaviours. We are their puppies. We are no longer dogs. Only puppies and dogs behave nastily when their owner smites them, because animals have no brains. They don’t think. Our emotions reduce us to a pack of wild dogs.

“You’re thinking a lot, Frank. I can see it, the way your eyes light up, as though you are working on a very complex, difficult arithmetic problem. It’s useless keeping it to yourself, Frank. I’m your friend, Frank. Maybe the death of your sister impacted you greatly, but that doesn’t mean you - 

My mind has reared in on itself now, and I am blasted with the frightful bombs of realisation. My tongue speaks on its own. Blasted thing. 

“How would you know, huh? You don’t know anything about me! What, you’re only here to pay me a due visit, one you people think necessary, not because you care for the person you’re visiting, but because it makes you feel better, for you’ve convinced yourself you’re doing a good deed. Shove off, you and your selfless acts of kindness. I’m sick of it! I’m sick of everyone!”

The other is left dumbfounded, speechless, mouth gaping wide, rooted to the spot. It seems as though I had struck a nerve. Good. Maybe then, he would leave me alone. I deserve this. I deserve all this judgment. From God, from him. From whoever, really. The more the time passes over me, the more I lose consciousness of myself. Maybe I’m not such a good person after all. 

“Francis.” He speaks at last, his gaze pointed against the ground, his eyes jumping up and down, ruminating over the right words to say.

“Maybe you didn’t mean it. Maybe you didn’t mean to lay your hands on her. You let your emotions get the better of you. It happens, sometimes. But, it’s better to endure privately what others have accused you of, than to let yourself snap, and suffer the consequences of your actions. It’s ok, Francis. Just don’t let it happen again, ok?”

There it is. It’s happening again. My emotions are bubbling up now, simmering beneath the surface. Their hands bulge up, clinging on me, pulling, scratching, tearing anything that comes in their way. The black figure standing in the corner has grown larger, taller, bigger, and is now staring back at me with a knowing, searing gaze. They’re using their teeth now, biting and tearing the skin from my body, and I’m left uncovered, open, to the judging gaze of the world around me. The piano. Where’s the piano? It’s out of tune, probably. I haven’t played anything for a long time. It’s Christmas soon. What time is it? Have I lost track of time?

The piano. It took shape.  It’s a face now. The White Keys are the teeth, the Black ones are the eyes. The piano is smiling at me. It’s standing right where my friend was standing just a minute ago. Was he even there in the first place? But the door opened. I heard a knock. The coat and hat are still there. But they were always there. The piano man is still standing before me, his eyes torching me from the inside out. 

The piano man blinks. He plays a tune. His mouth moves up and down, his teeth clicking and clacking together, making an odd, jeering sound. I hate it. I want it to stop. Please, for the love of God, make it stop! It’s getting louder now. My hands are pulling at the skin against my ear, pushing so hard as to stop any sound from coming in. Yet the sound is still getting louder, resounding against my skull. 

"STOP IT! PLEASE, STOP, I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!"

Tears well up in my eyes. One more sound. One more fucking sound, and I’d blow the roof off this place. It’s not even a nice house. With its cheap furnishings, and blood red walls. I hate it. I hate everything. 

I run to the miniature kitchen. I fling open all the drawers, foraging for anything. Something sharp. Something heavy. A ladle. This will do. 

I ram it against the piano man, repeatedly, bludgeoning him, one blow after the other. The music falters, all kinds of notes forming a harmony of sorts, making an ear - splitting sound. But I keep on hitting him. The strings holding him together spring loose, each one snapping from the other as I continue hitting him. 

The music stops. I lay there, inhaling deeply, exhaling ruggedly. I looked at him one last time. He is not dead.

He has taken another shape now. The face has well - rounded cheeks, pale, blue, flushed, chill to the touch. It has hair. Nice golden locks. The same ones my sister had. Its eyes spring open, like a mechanical puppet. It gets up now, one foot at a time, its eyes never leaving me, and stands up high and tall.

It is not a person. Its mouth, parted slightly, its eyes bulging out their sockets, as if they’d seen things no other human dares to see. Its gaze is pointed at me. It never blinks. It struggles to breathe, hyperventilating, making odd, heart-breaking sounds.

I stand there, astounded. I thought I killed her. I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t. And yet, why is she here, intact, standing before me? She’s wet, her white nightgown clinging to her blotched, pale skin. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? So she’s alive? Come back from the dead to haunt me? I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t anymore.

She opens her mouth wide now, as if daring to speak. My ears perk up, ready to listen. What was I expecting her to say, really? How much she hates me? How she wishes I was the one who was dead? How she hopes that someday, I might meet a cruel fate, just like the one I’ve enacted onto her? I can’t hear it. I don’t want to hear it. 

She doesn’t speak for a while. She lets out a long breath, like a ghost, making an ‘uh’ sound. It’s coming from the back of her throat. She does not blink. She keeps her cloudy gaze on me.

Then, it happens. It all happens so suddenly. Water trickles out from her parted mouth, slowly at first, then it gushes out, spilling everywhere, filling the room. I need to open a window quickly. Otherwise I might die here. I know the figure standing before me is but a figment of my imagination. My sister is long gone. She’s come back from the dead to carry out her final ordeal, summoned by the Gods, against me. The windows are all locked tight. The water level is rising. I’m practically swimming in it now. I must save her. I’ve got to save her. 

She’s still standing there, floating now, against the current of water, trying to stay afloat, amidst all the chaos and turbulence. I swim towards her, my arms flailing to and fro, struggling to keep my head afloat. I take a deep breath and dive into the water, my blurry, hazy vision trying to make out her figure. My fingers fumble over an arm, and I clutch it towards me, clinging onto it with all the strength I could muster. Only this wasn’t a hand I was holding onto. It was the leg of a chair. I fling it away from me as though it were piping hot, and now sounds, broken, desperate sounds, are coming out of me, and my limbs work on their own accord, and now I’m crouched against the corner of the room. And the black figure is still there and it looks down at me with a knowing, searing gaze, and it opens its mouth wide open and swallows me whole. 

I am back near the river now. Where it all happened. I look around me. It’s all like I remember it. The crystal clear water reflects the ever turning tides of the sky, all at once different hues of the opalescent blue. The trees stand up large and tall against the dark ground, all huddled together in large masses. It’s nice to gaze at the marvellous wonders of nature. It doesn’t betray us. It doesn’t hurt us. At least, it doesn’t mean to hurt us. One hand is grazing the ground, feeling the fertile, rumpled soil against my skin, the ripe smell of earthly ground reaching my nostrils and filling me up with a sense of peace. My other hand is grazing something soft, something full, grasping a full tuft of hair. I freeze in place. I look down, and see the scene play out right before my eyes. My sister’s head is locked in place, by my hand, as I push her into the water, her gasps of air, and screams being silenced with the onslaught of water filling her lungs. I didn’t mean to do it. I swear I didn’t. She just couldn’t stop crying is all. I had to shut her up somehow. The gag wasn’t enough, so I had to rely on other tactics. Please believe me. Oh, please, I beg of you!

I don’t know who I’m speaking to right now. Are you still there, dear reader? Or are you too, just a figment of my imagination? I don’t know what is real and what isn’t anymore. I didn’t mean to do it. I swear on my life I didn’t. My sister was a good girl, always was. But she was very demanding, and I hated her for it. I don’t think she ever was my sister. She was blonde with blue eyes. I have brown hair and brown eyes. We are not alike. All humans are not alike. We come from different places and experiences. We are shaped based on those places and experiences. I hope my sister is doing alright, wherever she is. 

It was all over the paper. A girl of 10 years mysteriously drowned. I don’t think they interviewed me. I don’t know if they interviewed me.

It’s been like this for a while now. I’m not sure where to begin or to end. Alpha and Omega. I am Alpha, a convict. I am Omega, a redeemer. My home is this jail cell. Here I relive my crime. But I shouldn’t stay here for long. It’s for the best. Maybe I can reach the end of it. I can find my path home. The medicine they give me makes me feel woozy. Makes me see and hear things. Makes me imagine everything as if it’s always been there. Maybe I’ve always seen and heard things. Maybe it’s what led me to do it. But the doctors here are very nice. They’re moving me to a new ward. They’re saying that I’ll soon be free. Even the psychologists. Oh dear, I’m about to cry again. In all my life, I’ve never felt so understood. They don’t care that I’ve committed a crime, they understand and sympathise with me. They tell me I wasn’t in the right headspace. But I admit my crimes. I acknowledge them. They take care of me all the more for it. Maybe there’s hope.

I’ve spent so long waiting. But it’s useless waiting for it; for the change to come fluttering towards me like a well - deserved prize. How can I bear it? How can I expect change if I don’t change myself? I must not run away anymore; even you.

Maybe someday, I’ll be free. Free from all the torments, all the burdens. Are you still here, dear reader? You are a strong one, then. You also must have faced difficult situations; such as to test your slipping sanity. But you are here, aren’t you? Still intact. You are stronger than you think you are. It took me some time to realise this, yet I’ve made peace with it; the things I can’t change. We all have our own inner demons; only those that dare to unlock the cage and face them are the true warriors. Learn to face them; you’ll be rewarded greatly for it.

Only then will you find your way home - to yourself.