Hello, my name is Psych and I live in an asylum. Yes, an asylum. I'm 23 years old. I've spent two years of my life here. Why am I here? Good question. Even I don't know. People say I'm hallucinating—but am I?
Let me take you back—a flashback. My flashback.
Flashback
One wonderful Monday. Just kidding. Mondays aren't wonderful. I was running late. We all hate Mondays, don't we? Anyway, back to the story.
Harvard University. Yes, I was a student at Harvard University. Come on, get jealous. Oh my God, I can smell your jealousy through the pages. I was doing a major in literature. Yes, I can feel your Asian ass disappointed.
Go on, judge.... Done? Oh, still not done? Then go on.....
If you still want to judge, you can close this book and leave. I need to finish my flashback.
So where was I? Oh yes—I reached the university and went to my lecture hall. That's when my life flipped upside down. You see, ever since I was young, I would randomly fall into comas—sometimes for days, sometimes for months. For everyone else, I was unconscious. But for me? I was somewhere else. I was transported to another world. Another life. And by life, I mean my past life.
At first, I thought they were just dreams. But one day, I got a bruise on my knee in my past life and when I woke up—it was still there. That's when my suspicions started, and more incidents like that only confirmed it. That Sunday night, I slipped into another past life dream. I was a farmer's child, wandering through a forest near our land. I had no control over whatsoever happened in those lives. Whatever happened in my so-called "dreams" happened to my body too. I was murdered—multiple times. And each time, I woke up in agony, the pain so real, it made me wish I didn't wake up at all.
In that dream, in the forest, I saw an elf staring at me. His eyes were hidden, his hair darker than the darkest night, and his smile—creepier than your smile. Yes your smile. Before I could react, I was stabbed. My last glimpse before death was that twisted face. Can you imagine your final moment being the sight of some pathetic creep?
The next day, in my actual life, I reached the lecture hall. We were introduced to a new assistant professor. And guess what? It was him. The same exact face from my dream. The elf. The murderer. And then, something else appeared. A being. No face, no body. Just a shadow. It whispered to me: "Kill him."
And I felt it. I felt the need to kill someone—or specifically, the ugly ass assistant professor. I tried to resist, but when I looked at his face again, I snapped. That face had such a dark, hateful aura. Maybe he deserved it. Just kidding. But seriously—my ability to think straight was gone. I lost control and launched myself at him. I nearly killed him.
After that, it was court after court. I explained everything: the dreams, the shadow, the voice, the past lives. Of course, they decided I was mentally unstable. And that's how I ended up in this asylum.
Flashback over.
Now, I want to know what that figure was. What that shadow was. But first, I need to get out of here. I've tried escaping—so many times—but every time I tried, the security got tighter. I mean, come on, look at me. A face like mine shouldn't be rotting in an asylum. It should be framed beside the Mona Lisa, not locked up in this miserable place.
But there's one thing that makes this place bearable—Grandpa, the old man in the room next to mine. I visit him often. He's more of a parent to me than my actual parents ever were. They always loved their second child more—my younger brother. But my brother? He's the sweetest soul I know. He visits me here sometimes. My parents, on the other hand, haven't shown their faces since I got sent here. Typical.
But I have Grandpa. And my brother. That's enough, right? No, I'm not crying. Come on. I'm a handsome 23-year-old young man. Why would I cry? Dumb ass people they think I will cry
Anyway, I went to see Grandpa today. I opened the door and found him eating peacefully.
"Hello Grandpa, how's the food today?" I asked.
He looked up and smiled. "Ah, my son. The food is good. How was work today?"
Yes—he thinks I'm his son. His real son died when he was 25. Ever since, Grandpa's mind fractured. Now, he sees every young man as his child. And for him, I play the part.
"It was great," I told him. "A few of my colleagues asked about you."
"Oh, I'm fine. Come eat."
So I went to him, and yes—he fed me. What? Even if I'm 23, I still like to be pampered. Besides, I'm acting like his son. Stop judging. Okay?
After we ate, we talked for a while. Then I helped massage his legs—he has trouble walking. Don't you dare look down on me.
He's the kindest soul I've met in this godforsaken place.
Another day in the asylum passed. I still don't like it here, but Grandpa makes it more bearable. Still, at night, when the silence swallows everything, it feels like the world's gone numb. The moonlight spills through my window, but all I see is darkness.
And no matter how much I try to forget… I still remember.
That figure.
That voice.
"Kill him."