Fractured Reflections
I woke to the echo of a distant bell—soft, mournful, like a funeral toll in an empty cathedral. My head ached, as if my skull had been cracked open and stitched back together with ice. My arms and legs felt bound, though when I moved I found only the clean white sheets tangled around me. Pale daylight filtered through narrow barred windows high on the wall. I lay on a narrow bed in a sterile room with white walls that seemed to curve inward, closing me in.
Where am I? I thought, panic rising. I sat up too quickly and my vision swirled. Faces, flashes of bone and blood, fractured in the white light. I shut my eyes and pressed my palm to the back of my head—long for the spiral scar that had vanished but still throbbed with memory.
Footsteps approached. The door hissed open. A woman in a crisp white coat entered, clipboard in hand. She wore a careless smile. "Good morning, Satrio," she said softly, voice calming. "How are you feeling today?"
"Where am I?" My voice cracked in half.
"This is Greenbrook Psychiatric Ward," she said, flicking a pen. "You were brought in after an incident in Kodiak. You're safe here. We've reviewed your charts." She tapped the clipboard. "You've been diagnosed with acute stress reaction and dissociative episodes. We're going to help you recover."
My heart thundered. "Stress reaction?" I managed. "The demon—Ulzakar—"
She frowned and flipped a page. "Ulzakar?" She set the clipboard aside. "Tell me about Ulzakar."
I blinked. She really wanted to hear it? "He… he was a demon of ice and bone. He possessed my principal, my teachers, even my parents. I drank blood to free us. We destroyed his cathedral of bones."
Her smile faltered. She leaned forward. "Satrio, these sound like hallucinations. You experienced severe trauma—loss of friends, near death, violence. Your mind created a narrative to process it. We're here to help you heal."
I pressed my palms to my temples. The white walls pulsed. I heard faint chanting behind me. I whirled—but the room was empty. Then the lights flickered.
"I'm not hallucinating," I whispered. The chanting grew louder, though the woman's lips did not move. They hunger… I heard one voice say. They hunger for your fear.
She placed a steady hand on my shoulder. "Let's start with some medication. It will help you rest." She turned and picked up a small syringe from the bedside table. "This is a mild sedative. Just a small dose. No need to fear."
My pulse raced. No sedative, no— But she held the syringe like a flower, beckoning me. "You need to sleep." Her smile was too bright, too calm. I had to run.
"Stop!" I jerked away. My blankets tangled. The woman's smile sharpened. "Now, now, Satrio. You're upset. We'll need to calm you."
She pressed the syringe to my arm. The needle glinted. Panic clutched me like chains. I swung my leg over the bed and bolted to the door. My fingers found the handle—it was locked. My breath burned my throat.
The doctor's face blurred. "There's no reason to be afraid," she said. Her voice echoed down the corridor. "We're here to help you."
I pressed against the door, panic flooding my senses. Through the narrow window I saw an empty white hallway with doors on both sides. Pale footprints stained the floor—dark smudges that glittered like frost. They led away from me. I ripped off the linens and wrapped them around my hands.
The door clicked. She opened it a crack. "Satrio… don't make this harder on yourself." Her face was calm, practiced sympathy. "Just take your meds…"
I shoved the linen wad into her face. It muffled her scream as I bolted into the hallway.
The day ward was silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights. The walls curved, corners blurring. Doors lined the hall—names like "Observation" and "Recovery." I burst into the ward area: cots filled with quiet patients, blankets pulled high, eyes closed but lips moving. They murmured in that same chant: We hunger… we hunger… I backed away, heart pounding.
A nurse rounded the corner, trolley in hand. "Oh, dear—" She gasped at me. "You're not supposed to be out of bed!" She tried to block me. I swung the linen-wrapped fist and knocked the trolley over. The crash echoed. The chanting rose.
I ran on wobbling legs, down another corridor, around a corner. Doors slammed open: one room contained patients in straitjackets, eyes wild, mouths gleaming with drool. They rocked and muttered spirals. One reached out and snapped his jaws at me. I dashed past, hearing a soft snap as his teeth clamped on empty air.
Another door led to a windowed room stacked with files and charts. I ducked inside and slammed it shut. My breaths came in gusts. Inside was an office desk and a small sink. On the desk lay files—folders labeled with my name: "Smith, Satrio: Subjective Delusions; Hallucinations; Medication Noncompliance." A file was open, showing scribbled notes: Patient reports hearing voices and seeing dead bodies. Denies self-harm but exhibits violent behavior. Recommend increased antipsychotics.
I vomited into the sink. The taste was stale and sharp. My face burned. Behind me, the chanting grew from faint to deafening. They hunger. They hunger. They hunger.
I spun and saw the patients through the glass wall, pressing their pale faces to the window. Spirals scratched into their foreheads—thin, weeping lines. They wiped their mouths on their sleeves and grinned when they saw me. I through the door open and scrambled out.
Down the corridor I ran, the walls leaning in, the chanting turning into a thousand voices screaming. My legs threatened to buckle. No. No…
I skidded to a stop at a stairwell. Rusted metal steps led up into darkness. I climbed, each step a groan. The wail of voices followed me upward. I lit a match from my pocket—burnt wood and sulfur. The tiny flame flickered against peeling paint. I saw—etched into the wall—a spiral, drawn in blood. The match died.
Above me, the stairwell opened onto an attic-like loft. Moonlight spilled through a skylight. Old trunks and broken furniture lay scattered. I crept forward, hand pressed to the wall, following the moonbeam. My pulse pounded like a war drum.
Then I heard sobbing. A faint, ragged cry. I turned and saw Lena—her hospital gown torn, hair tangled. Her eyes were vacant pools. She knelt beside an overturned trunk, limbs bound by bony vines. The vines pulsed like veins. Her lips moved in silent apology as she clawed at the binding.
"Lena!" I cried, stepping forward. She spun, eyes wild. The spiral scar gleamed on her palm. She stood and advanced, each step slow and jerky. Her mouth opened in a scream—but no sound came.
I backed away, match flickering. "Lena, it's me—Satrio!"
She tilted her head. Then she lunged, vines whipping like whipcracks. I ducked, stumbling back. The match dropped. In the dark her vines traced the air, each lash a whisper of bone on flesh. I heard them scrape against concrete.
Behind me I felt cold breath. I turned and saw the doctor from my room, her face twisted, eyes sunken. She held the syringe—empty, save for a single drop clinging to the tip. Without a word she advanced, coat swirling, medical bag at her hip. Her lips peeled back in a grin of sharpened teeth.
Panic seized me. The chanting was everywhere now, a tidal roar. I heard my name whispered by a thousand tongues. I heard Ulzakar's voice in my mind: You cannot escape.
I turned and fled into the loft, tripping over a trunk. Splinters nicked my palms. I crawled beneath a broken desk. I pressed my back against its cold underside and hugged my knees.
Above me, footsteps. The doctor's heels clicked on the wooden floor. Lena's vines scraped across the planks. Each breath was a crack. The chanting slowed to a heartbeat. My ear pressed to the wood. My breath caught as the footsteps paused.
I dared a peek: Lena's face hovered above the desk, eyes empty. The doctor stood behind her, syringe glinting. They stared.
Lena whispered: "Why didn't you forgive me?"
The doctor's lips parted: "Why do you resist?"
I shook my head, tears freezing on my cheeks. "I—" I choked, voice caught in my chest. I'm not mad. "I'm not crazy."
Lena's eyes filled with sorrow. The doctor's smile sharpened. They stepped in unison. The syringe plunged down.
I screamed, lunged forward—and everything went black.