Then the water warms. The colour of light changes; gold replaces blue, softening the edges of everything. The river becomes a bath, or maybe a dream of one. Another pair of hands steadies me, not forcing but holding, guiding. The pressure on my shoulders is the same, yet it means something different. My body remembers both kinds of touch at once and can’t decide which one to trust. The fear that had once kept me alive uncoils, reshaping itself into something heavier, slower, almost tender.
I surface just long enough to breathe, gasping, eyes wide against the light that spills across the room. Warm water slides over my skin, over the hands that keep me steady. A voice murmurs something close to my ear, too low to make out, but the cadence is the same as the one from the river.
The sound pulls at me, equal parts comfort and command.
I should know which memory is real. Which hands meant to kill me, and which tried to keep me. But the edges blur. The river, the bath, the scent of skin and steam–they collapse into one another until all that’s left is the pull downward.
“You like this,” one of them whispers. “You always have.”
I don’t know which one speaks. Maybe both. The boy on the bank watching bubbles break. The man above me, silent, eyes bright with something I can’t name.
The water closes in again, claiming what it always meant to take.
And I do like this. My body is responding. Uncoiling. Pain and calm trade places like dancers switching leads. My lungs ache, but I stay still. Somewhere inside the drowning there’s astrange peace, and inside that peace a truth I’ve carried ever since: if you can survive without air, you can survive anything.
When I break the surface again, it’s to the sound of my own gasp echoing against tile. Water – or sweat – slides down my throat. A heartbeat, close but not mine, thuds steady beside my ear. The world ripples once, twice, then fades back into darkness.
Only a voice remains, drifting through the black like a current pulling me home.
“Good girl.”
“Well done, little bird.”
CASE FILE - HATCHET
Name: Forrest King
Age: 36
Height: 6’2
Weight: 72kg
Hair: Dark Brown
Eyes: Brown
Distinguishing Features: Scars below left eyebrow and on left shoulder from childhood trauma (taken from police and hospital reports).
Alias: Hatchet
Date of Arrival: 25/12/2000
Sentence: Life imprisonment within the facility with no chance of parole.
Treatment: Ongoing. Patient’s refusal to speak impairs treatment plan.
Summary of Crimes: Available reports indicate that subject was apprehended at the site of a mass casualty incident occurring within a rural church during a midnight service. Upon arrival, emergency personnel discovered the interior sealed from within and the entire congregation deceased.Victims exhibited extensive blunt-force and sharp-force trauma consistent with a hatchet or similar weapon.
No defensive wounds were found on the subject, suggesting either premeditation or an absence of resistance from victims. Blood pattern analysis implies that the killings occurred over a prolonged period rather than in a single outburst, indicating deliberate pacing and emotional control inconsistent with temporary psychosis.
Subject was discovered at the altar, covered in blood, the weapon discarded beside him. Multiple witnesses – those arriving late to the service – reported hearing “hymns continuing long after the screaming stopped.”
All records concerning motive, victim relationships, and psychological triggers remain sealed under Order [REDACTED], though hospital documentation prior to the incident suggests a prolonged history of institutional neglect and sustained trauma at the hands of unidentified community members.
Since incarceration, King has not spoken a single word. Psychological evaluations suggest deep dissociative barriers and possible catatonic selectivity. Despite total silence, he exhibits moments of lucidity – often humming faint fragments of hymns corresponding to the night of the murders.
ARMED, ARMOURED, HUNGRY FOR A FIGHT
