The Trait

The screaming ceased. Blood dripped down the staircase, the metallic scent thick in the air. Bits of flesh clung to the walls and floors.

The pocketknife slipped from trembling fingers, clattering against the tiles, the sound echoing through the house.

At the bottom of the stairs, a figure stood frozen. Wide eyes. An open mouth twisted in horror. One of them moved first. A wet sound and blood gushed from one of their chests.

“You should have known better than to be curious. You know how I hate it,” she whispered, voice cold, almost tender, a smirk pulling at her lips as she looked down at her best friend’s body. Her voice faded into the darkened hall. She bent down, picking up her pocketknife, the blade sticky in her hand. She traced a finger over the engraving: "48." She would have to change it to 51 now—she was finally free.

Or so she thought...

A figure stood up... vomiting blood, clutching her stomach for dear life, limping forward, staring at the one who tried to murder her but... she couldn’t see her face.

She collapsed again.

Tasha's POV :

My eyes flutter open, heart slamming in my chest, breathing heavily as if I just ran a marathon. Oh, dear God, this time it felt real, way too real. 5 years of reliving the same dream.

After that awful night, I was admitted to this place. I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake. The nightmares stopped—briefly. But I remember exactly when they returned. It was right after my first appointment with Nat. I still wonder why. And ever since, I had the same nightmare,

the same details,

the same atmosphere,

the same emotions.

I would wake up drenched in sweat…it was torture. As if I’m being punished for a crime.Then it became a normal routine. But this time…something felt off. It felt like I was living it all again. Then my eyes widen in realization.

That pocketknife… I remember seeing it a few years ago. Now that I think about it, the fact that out of everything that pocketknife is the first thing to resurface in my nightmare, does it have a stronger signification than I realized? Why is it stressing me out the most? Did I know something I forgot, is that why it’s driving me nuts? 48…. I remember that number so well its troubling me but…. Where? Why?

I don’t know what I’m going to do with this new piece of puzzle. But deep down, something tells me that the answer is not too far away, and it won’t take me long to figure it out.

A knock interrupts my thoughts.

"Come in," I call.

The door creaks open. "Good morning! How are we feeling today?" chirps the nurse.

"Hello, Martha. Same old," I yawn.

Martha's been my nurse since day one, almost the same age as me. Bright in a way that almost makes you forget you're trapped here. Almost.

Over the years, we’ve gotten used to each other. Not friends, but familiar. I've learned not to trust anyone easily.

She opens the curtains. Sunlight slashes across my face. I hiss and cover my eyes.

"Your appointment with Nat is in an hour," she says cheerfully.

"Alright. See you soon."

She flashes a grin and disappears down the hall.

She leaves, and I lie there for five more minutes, debating staying in bed forever. Then I get up, throw on grey sweatpants and a loose shirt. I glanced in the mirror. The dark circles under my eyes are brutal.

I head to the canteen, nodding to a few patients I recognize. No friends, just... familiar faces. I don't do friends anymore. Not after what happened. Not after where I ended up.

I eat quickly and head to the therapist's hallway, waiting for Nat to call on me. I stopped using formalities with her a long time ago. I never liked her. From day one, she gives off a bad energy. Always acting like a victim for some reason. Two sessions left, then I’m done.

Her door opens. "Good morning, Tasha! I'm ready for you now."

"Thanks," I mutter, stepping inside dropping onto the couch. Her office was warm and inviting—medium-sized, with softly glowing candles and enough accessories to make the space feel more like a spa than a therapist’s office. Fake comfort.

I swear, the first thing I’m doing when I leave this place is book a full spa day, I’d deserve it. Then my eyes drift to something on the floor below the carpet…it’s seems like a trap door. It was clear she was hiding something beneath it—why else place the carpet so precisely?. Must be jewelry or some sort.

“So," she begins, "I'm guessing you had the nightmare again?"

Every session starts the same. She knows about the dreams—how vivid they are. The same topic every damn time, it’s starting to get annoying. And every time, I give the same response.

Except this time, something did change.

But I wasn’t going to tell her. Not now, not ever. If I do, she’ll blame the whole thing on me. But I hate to admit that her statements do make some sort of sense and it’s killing me. But no, I shouldn’t let her get to me.

"You know the answer," I say flatly. "Still no idea who it was that night." Well, I do have a clue now, but she doesn’t need to know that.

"Are you sure?" she presses. "Dreams like these tend to evolve. Maybe there's been a shift you haven't fully processed yet."

Her gaze lingers. Her eyes—those brown, siren-like eyes—stir something. A gaze I recognize but can’t seem to place it. Innocent like. So, innocent.

She might have noticed something in view of a smirk forming on her face. I just want to wipe it off.

“You know how concerned I am right? Something must have come by last night because…well you’re not your usual self.” Adds Nat

“You see, with what you’ve told me ever since…you seem way sure that you were the one attacked, but what if you were the attacker? It could have been to protect yourself, but you said you felt power at that moment, and you don’t seem to be guilty, that’s not how victims usually feel” Says Nat rather calmly. “Memory is tricky Tasha; the brain blocks what it can’t handle” she concluded. “I-I don’t know but—hey what exactly are you accusing me of? The last thing I know is that you’re here to help me so I can leave this place. I didn’t know you were a detective as well” I spat.

Why am I trying to defend myself? I didn’t say anything else. Deep down…what she said troubled me. Am I capable of murder?

“If you were to kill…what would be your motive?” asks Nat, her eyes piercing right through me. “A trait maybe?”

My breath hitched. I can’t do this. I got up and stormed out.

“You should have known better than to be curious, you know how I hate it,” she whispered, voice cold, almost tender. She bent down, picking up her pink pocketknife, she was finally free.

Or so she thought…

Then a figure stood up…vomiting blood, clutching her stomach for dear life and limped forward, staring at the one who tried to murder her and… “Natasha?” she whispered before collapsing again.

5 years earlier…

??? POV

“Finally, that took forever!” said Josh as he dropped down on the couch, exhaling loudly. We had just arrived at a rather luxurious cabin his parents had kindly lent us for the week, kind of in the middle of nowhere. We all desperately needed a break. “So… truth or dare?” Austin proposed, wiggling his brows with a mischievous grin.

“No way. Not after what happened last time,” said Natasha, my best friend since childhood. “I have no idea where you get your dumb ideas so count me out.”

“I swear it won’t get crazy this time,” he insisted. “Besides, what else are we going to do, it’s not even 10 yet. Let’s have some fun.”

Rolling her eyes, she reluctantly agreed. The real fun was supposed to start tomorrow. Tonight, we were just humoring Austin and his “cool” games.

‘Nothing will get crazy,’ he said, yet here I was—locked in my and Natasha’s shared room for the past thirty minutes.

At least I don’t have to deal with his dumb dares anymore. The room, thankfully, was cozy for two, just like the guys’ room. The freshly washed sheets matched the soft cream-colored curtains, giving it a surprisingly homey atmosphere. Better than whatever chaos was going on downstairs anyways.

But then something caught my eye—something that didn’t belong.

A notebook.

It was sitting on Natasha’s bed, barely covered by a pillow, like she wanted someone to find it. That was strange. Natasha was always careful with her things. Curiosity got the best of me. I walked over and picked it up. It was her diary. The lock was unlatched. Had she forgotten to lock it? Or… had she left it open on purpose?

I hesitated for a moment, guilt creeping in—but curiosity always won with me. It’s not like she would notice… as long as I was careful. Natasha hated when people touched her things, even me. Which made me even more desperate to find out what she might be hiding.

““Natasha – 8th of August

We all mourn in different ways. For most, grief comes in tears.

Mine came in numbers. In revenge. In a goal. 50—well 51.

I know it sounds strange—obsessive even—but once I reach it, everything will finally change. It’s psychological, maybe. But it’s also personal. It’s legacy.

Even after her death, the aftermath never ended. It still hasn’t.

This is the only way I’ve found to silence it.

There are moments that brand themselves into your mind—unshakable, permanent.

I still remember that night. My mother, tied up. Begging in blood, sweats and tears.

I was there too. Bound. Powerless. Just… watching.

She wasn’t innocent.

She never had been.

People said she was bright, kind, and full of laughter. But I knew better.

She played many roles. But something inside her was broken in a way no one saw…. except me. Because…well…like mother like daughter.

I counted them. I didn’t want to, but I did. Fifty. Around her that night and I recognized them rather quickly… she dated them all in the past wanting to find “the one” but not for love I’m afraid. And it wasn’t hard to figure it out…I noticed her face with every one of them, she was all the way bored until came lucky number 51. But I saw the look in her eyes, like a person who just won the lottery, but not in a lovely or lustful way…quite the opposite. A day later that same man was on the news, murdered. I didn’t have to put two and two together to figure out the one behind all of this.

I knew my mom’s tears were fake.

And there they were…all in front of her that night. They probably planned this revenge altogether. But each of them left a mark. Left something… wrong, that could be spotted fast.

I noticed them:

One chewed his nails. One never flushed. One hummed when people cried…

But the worst trait? The one I could never forgive?

Curiosity.

The kind that sneaks into places it doesn’t belong.

The kind that peers too deep.

The kind that opens locked doors.

That kind… is dangerous, disgusting.

And how surprising was it that he was the most diabolic of all that night. Iconic.

But I understood their motive a little too late. They had a common trait they all hated. The kind that cheats…that lies. Now I get it.

But she’s my mother, always will be, even after her death, it’d do anything for her.

I still felt her with me even after she passed, in front of me. I was worse than her though, she didn’t know it but I’m sure she felt it. Her last look at me, I knew what she was asking me to do, and she knew I was capable. 3 more and that’ll be over with.

How sad though, I didn’t and will not fully accomplish her wish. I won’t kill them. They were right in doing what they had done. They killed her for the trait they hated in her. And that is exactly how I’m getting my revenge. I’ll do the same. 50 bodies, for the 50 bodies each containing rageful traits they all had. 50 different traits I got to find, and I know exactly where to start.

And on the 51st? The lucky one? It will resemble the trait I despite the most. And I plan to do it soon, luckily next week when I’m off with my so-called friends, they are exactly the last 3 I’m looking for…including my 51st.

My mom got lucky and so will I. I know who I’m after. But I need to do one thing to prove it. ””

Present…

Tasha's POV :

I open my eyes, drenched in sweat…my body shaking nervously, my breath hitching. Natasha. I remember now. I look around the room and notice something out of place, it’s a pocketknife. Am I the killer? No, no no that can’t be, somebody must be playing tricks on me, this wasn’t here this morning…

I flew out of my room and tried to sneak into Nat’s office, good thing I had bobby pins on my head. I knew there was something wrong with her the moment I saw her… I was so close to leaving this place now there’s a chance they might keep me here.

I know she has something to do with all of this. I enter her office and notice her trap door wide open…she left it open… on purpose? Like she wanted me to see that. The first thing I saw was a diary, with the name “Natasha” on it. I remember seeing it a long time ago as well. I decided to read it, even though I remember exactly the content, as if I was the one who wrote it. I can’t’ believe I forgot about it all this time. This changes everything.

After I finished the last sentence, the book fell from my hands. Everything started, because of that diary, they were all killed because of it. And I’m the one to blame. “Shit shit what’s this doing here?! Gosh…. because of me they were all killed I’m so stupid! I should have never—

“Glad you finally came to your senses sweetheart” I turn around and saw Nat staring at me with a smirk. “I told you; the brain blocks what it can’t handle” you couldn’t handle the fact that you killed our friends that night. How’s that to you Natasha?”

Wait what, Natasha? Is she me? “You ruined my life you know that, if only you weren’t crazy, they would still be here.” Huhh? “I-I don’t what you’re talking about…” Then she pulled her shirt up and I saw it. Her scar. “Now do you remember? You stabbed me, but good thing you didn’t go to deep”

“So, I did it? I killed them?” The person I was looking for all this time… was me. That’s why she was so eager to find the truth as well, that’s why she felt familiar. I want to deny it but it feels too real…Is that why they called me Tasha instead? Would I have reacted the same way I did if they called me my real name too soon? And the diary? It makes sense hence my reaction to it. And her scar, that night i didn’t’ see anyone stabbing themselves in the stomach…

Red and blue flares flashed the therapy room, and we darted our heads to the window. The police were here. Two officers barged in the room with handcuffs. They flung to my side and cuff me, I don’t budge “I’m still in shock” Before I leave I hear Nat whisper something to me “I wanted to help you, truly did, I was about to let you go knowing you had had enough torture, but I wanted to see if you truly deserved to go. You know how I hate curious and sneaky people, I guess you truly didn’t learn your lesson after last time, did you Tasha?” she said with a smirk.

I turned pale. Before I could say anything, I was whisked brutally away by one of the officers when my eyes landed on a card by the desk. It was an ID badge, surely Nat’s one. But then something shifted in me. I tried to prevent myself from being taken away and took a better look at the name.

Dr. Natasha Ikanova......