Forgotten Survivor

I was having breakfast at my favourite cafe when a young woman who could have been five years older smiled at me from across the room before approaching my table.

“Hi again,” she said.

I was confused. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, you may not remember, but you paid for my lunch a couple of years ago two towns over when I had misplaced my purse.”

My memory has been hazy for a long time; and even though I discontinued my medication, it never fully recovered. Some fragments of my life were lost forever.

“I would like to pay for your breakfast, if you don’t mind. It’s the least I can do.”

“No, no, it’s fine. You don’t need to.”

“Oh, please, I insist.”

I wanted to say no, but she was too sincere for me to refuse—and she reminded me of my older sister, Ally, whom I at least assumed would look like her, had she still been around. I couldn’t remember how Ally passed away; in fact, almost all of my childhood was a blur. I finally caved and told her it was alright.

The woman introduced herself as Tina. She and I became friends quite quickly and started to meet regularly at that cafe. A couple of months later, Tina asked me if she could move in with me as she was struggling with finding work. Tina and I came from similar backgrounds, being forgotten survivors of domestic abuse, so I knew how difficult her situation was. I was just lucky that the first book I wrote gained the traction it did; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the place I now owned.

A week later, I started getting letters from an obsessed fan. Tina took it seriously and asked me to call the cops, but having dealt with a similar experience before, I knew they would be useless: cops only ever showed concern when it was already too late. It was a harsh truth I learned at a young age.

In the coming days, things got worse: Tina and I woke up to bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolates at our doorstep. The fan was now a stalker, and his letters were twisted with deep delusions. Tina said she’d accompany me to the police station. I agreed, but as I feared, they turned out to be useless, as always.

It was then that Tina suggested the unthinkable. “We need to kill him.”

“Wait, what? You can’t be serious!”

“What other choice do you have? If the law won’t protect you, you have to protect yourself.”

“But I can’t kill someone.” Seated on the couch, I clasped my hands and held my head low. I could never imagine myself doing such a thing.

Tina knelt before me and held my hands in hers. “We do what we must. This is self-defence—this is survival. You’re like a sister to me; I never want to see any harm come to you.”

Tina’s words were comforting. I had a strange feeling that someone had told me something similar before, but I could not recall the memory.

She was right, but I still had second thoughts. Writing a crime thriller was one thing, but actually taking someone’s life was not something I could ever imagine myself doing, even if it were in self-defence.

The next night, the stalker broke into our house, armed with a knife. He rambled on about how much he loved me, and that if he couldn’t have what was his, no one could. Tina and I attacked him together, but he stabbed her in the hip and kicked me in the stomach. Tina was pushed away into my office, and I crawled away as the madman approached me. Before I knew it, he had pinned me to the ground and was pointing the blade at my chest.

“We’ll always be together,” he said. “No one will stand in my way anymore!”

I kicked him in the groin and pushed him away. The man screamed and fell on his back, dropping the knife next to me. I grabbed it without hesitation and leapt over to stab him in the chest. I stabbed him again, and again, and again, and again. I did not know what got into me—whether it was simply my will to survive or something more deep-rooted—but by the time I was done, the man’s chest and abdomen were perforated, and his face torn beyond recognition. His blood soaked my face and dripped down my hands, its sharp stench sinking into my lungs. I rose to my feet and staggered towards my office whilst gripping my hip. When I looked inside, Ally was gone.

Wait, Ally? No, that wasn’t her name…

My hip suddenly stung. I looked down and found blood seeping through my fingers. What’s… What’s happening?

The next thing I remembered was waking up in a hospital room, cuffed to the bed. I looked around to call for help; it was then that a man and a woman walked in. The woman showed me her badge and introduced the man as a psychologist.

Tina never existed…

I was tried a week later and subsequently placed in an institution, where I remain surrounded by the silence of cold grey walls.