Short Stories

Amnesia

TW: Mention of violence and blood. It's for a horror unit in my creative writing class if that helps you understand a bit...

The rooms surrounding him were constantly busy. There were nurses coming in at all times of the night, checking vitals, giving medication or water or food.

His room, however? There was only one person who ever entered his. Well, more like one group. It was always the same woman surrounded by two guards, both purely made of muscle, and both heavily armed.

At first, it was alarming, but he grew increasingly used to it. It still felt odd, however.

But no odder than it felt to be addressed by his name and have no idea that it was him to whom they were speaking. No odder than it felt to know nothing of his own history; nothing of his past friends or family with no idea why the guards were there; no idea why no one would tell him anything about his past.

All he had of its remnants was odd dreams—dreams of coursing adrenaline, running late at night under the cover of darkness, the feeling of relentless anger instantly followed by a feeling of peace and utter joy.

He always woke with an unspeakable amount of pleasure, and that happiness scared him. The thought that something so horribly painful was so easily resolved seemed . . . off. But no one would tell him anything about his past self. His only hint was his own name, but that meant as much to him as . . . as rain did to fish.

His days were filled with nothing but routine. Nothing new. Nothing exciting. Medicine with breakfast, sleep, lunch, sleep, medicine with dinner, sleep. Nothing triggered his memories, like the woman said it would. There was nothing to jog it.

Nothing but dreams that left him happy and terrified, angry and calm.

Nothing. At. All.

Until one day, the woman comes into the room without her guards. She carries a tray with bread, jam, and a butter knife. She places the tray on his lap and grabs his hand, opening it and placing the butter knife into his cupped, clammy palm.

"Hopefully, this will jog your memory."

His fist clenched around the knife, and emotions came flooding back.

A wave of unrelinquished, thirsty anger so intense that it filled his whole body and overtook him; memories of faces and power and blood flashed behind his eyes, the feeling of bliss after taking down his next victim; his vision clouded and all he knew was the feeling of cool metal in his hand; all he wanted to know was the feeling of the knife sinking into a body down to the hilt, the warmth of blood and the sweet chorus of piercing screams filling him with a pleasure he only ever wanted to experience again and again and again until there was nothing left in the world but a flood of blood, a torrent of tears, and the never-ending echo of cries of pain and agony until it all went silent with the calm of death.

His hand moved without the slightest hesitation, furrowing itself into the torso of the woman who had shown him no interest, who had left him alone day after day suffering in his own isolation, not knowing who he was. But now that he knew, he would never let himself go again. The woman's eyes widened, but a smile spread across her face.

It was then he realized something was wrong.

Yes, the knife had gone in, but there was no blood. His hands were untouched by the heat of her pain, as clean and as sterile as the rest of this wretched place.

Guards rushed in and pinned him to the bed, yanking his hand from the hilt of the knife. He writhed beneath their grip, but it was no use.

A moment of freedom. Now everything was gone.

He had the power of the world in his hand once more, but it was ripped from him as soon as he received it.

No more could he receive that rush of adrenaline as he chased down his prey. Humans were meant to be predators. They were meant to kill one another. That's how they were bred. That's how they should be. All he did was follow that urge. Not only did he follow it, but he relished in it. He took it to its full extent, loving every moment of the hunt, the fury clouding every aspect of his person; living for the overwhelming joy that came from the kill.

No more could he live the way he was meant to. No more was he the hunter, but instead the prey. But he wouldn't get the relief of death that he so generously gave the prey of his own. Instead, he would forever be left to wallow in the loss of his freedom; in the loss of the purpose of his life; in the loss of the thing that brought him joy when no one and nothing else could. 

A/N: I'm really proud of this if I'm being honest. It's really fun to try to get into a serial killer's head and try to think the way they do.