Despite finally falling asleep far past a reasonable hour, my mind is doing anything but resting. No, my mind is doing precisely what it does every night, torturing me with the same memories it has for a decade. The story of that night ten years ago is playing out eerily accurate to how it truly went, forcing me to again experience the worst night of my life.

  The white walls stained red under the bloodshed. The creaking floorboards as the black tar body saunters closer and closer, stopping just a few inches away from where I cower in a cabinet. A scream cut short by a blood curdling laugh. And of course, that persistent drip, drip, drip, from the blood that has flooded the house.

  ? ? ?

  I bolt awake, grasping for anything I can get my hands on. But it’s too late. Just like every night, the worst of which I actually throw my knives, fear convincing me that the creature is still here, lurking in the shadows, desperate to finish what it started.

  I experience every moment from that night in an infinite loop, regret looming like the beast. I heard their screams. I smelt the blood. I watched as they took their final breaths. And I did nothing to help. It’s not something I will ever forgive myself for. How I froze like that. If I hadn’t been such a coward, my mother may still be here. They all might.

  When my mind finally catches up with reality, I fall back onto my sack and the slickness I’ve created in my terror, sweat dripping all the way down to the bottom of the bed.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Before I can think, I jump off of my bed, tearing three knives from my sack, including my new jade handled blade, and tucking them into the harness on my thigh.

  Twisting my unruly strands of hair into the braid I’ve worn every day for a decade, I hastily enter the hallway, only turning when I reach the end of the asylum styled segway.

  It’s not like I'm going to get much sleep, anyway. I never do. How can I be expected to when slumber whisks me away to a whole new battle ground? One that turns my memories to ammunition. One that makes what I go through here seem like a child's playground.

  The compound is unbelievably creepy at this hour, almost like a graveyard; the torches well past extinguished, no souls lingering about. Each step I take echoes down the hall, each breath seems like an unwanted caress.

  Quickening my pace, I at last spot my salvation. The final door that will lead me into the refreshing night air. But as I push the door open, my face flashes back at me from the water stained window. I almost wince at my reflection, something that happens every time I see myself. I can’t help it. Not when I’m staring into the face of my dead family.

  My siblings and I were all very similar; the same curly, raven hair, the slender limbs, and cinnamon skin. My father was a hard worker, always selling some new gadget in town. He and I share the same green irises ribbed in blue. I always thought his looked like a tropical ocean, meshing in perfect beauty, especially when the Sun allowed them to shine. When I look at mine now, the only thing I can think about is how his looked rolling across the floor like marbles.

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  My mother, Delilah, was beloved by all, and as my father would have said, especially by the men. She had a lovely straight nose that was brushed in delicate freckles that spread to her ears, rose tinted, honey brown cheeks, and full lips that were typically spread in an inviting smile. Her voice was like the sweetest of sugar, and she moved with such grace that I often wondered if she was a goddess who had been born into the wrong world. She loved to be outside, but most especially in the water, and most of all, she was an incredible artist.

  When I was young, all I wanted was to one day look like her. But now that I’m her spitting image, it just makes me queasy. The only thing I can think about when looking into the mirror now is how I failed her. How I failed all of them.

  The coolness of the moisture rich air is immediately soothing. I can almost feel the emotions trickling out with each breath. Mist hangs over the trees like clouds, so thick that I can’t see past the treeline. The cold cluster is eerie, but calming in its own way.

  Making my way across the cement courtyard, I head for the woods. The beginning of the treeline is stunning, especially in the middle of the night. The trees are tall, taller than any building I have ever seen, and filled with creatures who make the forest peaceful and inviting, only matched by the light trickle of water running down rocks. My breath fogs in front of me as I rub my chilled hands together, but I’d take this over being trapped in that prison any day.

  Humming to myself a soft song my mother used to sing, a sudden wave of hopelessness washes up from the peculiar marks on my fingers, whipping all the way down to my toes, faltering my steps.

  These sensations happen daily, but no matter how many times I’ve felt them, it’s an out of body experience every time. I always feel…connected to something other than myself. Something greater than me.

  There are many sensations I’ve felt from the strange marks, but more often than not, they are ones of hopelessness and anguish. Unending anguish. Pain that is far deeper than physical.

  There’s a difference between physical and mental pain. Physical pain is like fire dancing across my skin. At times gut wrenching, but not nearly as bad as mental.

  Mental pain feels like hollowness, like you’re being ripped apart by the inside. It’s the type of pain that keeps you up all night, endless loops of thoughts plaguing you for what feels like eternity. Mental pain turns you into a shell of a person, a husk of what you once were. That kind of pain is agony. And it is what I feel from these markings constantly.

  The hopelessness from the bond sits like a boulder in my stomach. I know this feeling isn’t from myself. These feelings are always identifiable. It’s almost like they have been kissed by shadows. But regardless of who or what they belong to, it always affects me as strongly as my own emotions. I always feel the strangest urge to go to whatever the cause is.

  The only time I ever tried to escape here was when the feeling of agony so intense I nearly fainted poured over my body like the most frigid of blizzards. I sprinted from the dining hall so fast it took ten miles for the General to retrieve me and drag me back to his “office”. My heart didn’t settle for weeks. I don’t even know where I was going, or what I was trying to find, but instinct kicked in, and I still can’t seem to understand why.

  My dreams then were not filled with images of my family being ripped to shreds, but of screams filled with such pain that I woke from them in a panic. A panic so strong I couldn’t push my mind anywhere but those dreams. Those false memories that didn’t belong to me but another.

  The hopelessness from this most recent crash of emotion washes over me ruthlessly, though it gets less noticeable with each step I take. Sometimes the feelings last for weeks, other times for only a moment. It’s something I’ve grown quite used to, but have yet learnt to ignore. I don’t know if that’s because I can’t or I won’t.

  I round another twist of the forgotten trail and the emotion fizzles out of my marks. But even when the feelings are gone, it’s hard to shake the imprint they leave behind. The sense of something being out there. Something special and personal and mine.