I Thought My Boyfriend Was the Killer, But I Was the Murderer

At Denton General Hospital—

“Name.”

“Nora Trent.”

“Age.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“What symptoms?”

“I’ve been having headaches. Sometimes I see things—hallucinations, I guess—and I feel like someone’s watching me.”

“There’s something wrong with your mind. Let me fix it for you,” the doctor in the white coat said with a twisted grin.

He lifted a buzzing chainsaw from behind his back and brought it down toward my head—

…

“Ah!” I jerked upright with a scream.

Cold sweat beaded on my forehead and ran down my temples.

What met my eyes, though, was my own bedroom—familiar down to every corner. Just a dream.

But that dream was a hell of a reminder: I was supposed to go to the hospital today and get my head checked.

Lately, for no clear reason, my head had started to hurt more and more often. On top of that, I kept feeling like someone was spying on me from behind. I’d been stuck in this paranoid state for days. With no better option, I finally decided to see a doctor.

Denton General Hospital was the best hospital in our area, and the subway ride there took less than an hour. Like always, I passed through security, scanned my phone to enter the station, and found an empty seat.

I hadn’t slept well, so I rested my arm on the metal rail and leaned my head against it, drifting in and out.

A few minutes later, a woman and her little boy came in and sat down across from me.

For some reason, the kid kept staring at me. The feel of his eyes pinned on me made my skin crawl.

Any trace of drowsiness vanished.

“Excuse me, could you please ask your child not to stare at me like that?” After being stared at for several stops, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“What’s your problem? My kid can look wherever he wants. It’s none of your business.” The woman pulled her son closer, eyeing me like I was some kind of threat.

“Mom, this lady smells like blood,” the boy said, pointing at me with his small finger, his voice soft and clear.

He wasn’t loud, but everyone in the car heard him.

People instinctively shifted away from me, putting distance between us. Their expressions were tense, wary, as if they were afraid I was carrying something filthy that might rub off on them.

“Hey, kiddo, don’t just say stuff like that.” His words sent a chill down my spine, but I forced myself to sound calm.

I wasn’t hurt. I hadn’t touched anything bloody. Where the hell would a smell of blood come from?

At the next stop, the woman hurried off the train with her son in her arms. As the doors slid shut, I saw the boy still staring at me, his gaze locked on my face.

Had I really picked up something…bad?

No. No way. I was a firm materialist; I didn’t believe in supernatural crap.

Lost in these pointless thoughts, I almost didn’t notice we’d reached my station.

I got off quickly, suddenly desperate to find out what was wrong with my head.

Strangely enough, maybe because I was so distracted, it felt like I’d barely walked a few steps before the hospital rose up in front of me.

I’d already made an appointment online, so I went straight to the kiosk, printed my number, and took a seat to wait.

“Patient number thirty-six, please proceed to Examination Room Six.” The robotic voice echoed through the waiting area.

I glanced down at my slip. My turn.

My headache was getting worse by the minute as I hurried to Room Six. I needed help. Badly.

“Name.”

“Nora Trent.”

“Age.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“What symptoms?”

“I’ve been having headaches, and sometimes I see things. I get the feeling someone’s watching me.”

The exchange was almost identical to what had happened in my dream. I half expected the doctor to suddenly pull out a chainsaw from behind his chair.

But unlike in my nightmare, the doctor in front of me remained patient, asking carefully about my recent life, my stress levels, any psychological issues.

I answered everything one by one, and he took notes the whole time.

“Miss Trent,” he said at last, “my preliminary assessment is that you’re experiencing some mental health issues. I’ll prescribe you a sedative to help calm your nerves. Take it exactly as directed, and do not, under any circumstances, exceed the dosage.”

“If you have any issues after this, you can contact me directly. This is my card.” He handed me a business card. The name printed on it read: Wade Nash.

“Okay, okay. Thank you, Doctor.”