YELLOW

PART 16

I crouched behind the door of the psychologist's office, the faint light seeping through the crack illuminating the room. The door was closed, but I had managed to slip inside through the window he often left slightly ajar for his smoke breaks.

My hands were stained with blood, a dark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. The sound of keys jingling caught my attention as he entered, closing the door behind him. I stood there, tears streaming down my face, my hoodie pulled tight around me to shield me from the world.

"You have to help me," I pleaded, stepping out from my dark corner. The psychologist turned, his eyes widening in shock as he recognized me. "Marcus," he said, his voice trembling. His gaze dropped to my bloodied hands, and he instinctively backed away toward his desk, reaching for the intercom to call for help.

I quickly aimed my gun at him, keeping my voice low but firm. "You won't do that. You need to listen to me first." I commanded, positioning him on the leather chair as I sat on the desk, the gun resting in my hands, shifting nervously from side to side.

I wasn't a murderer, but the voices in my head screamed otherwise, drowning out any sense of reason. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on me, as if the very air in the room thickened with tension. I was desperate, caught in a storm of fear and confusion, and I needed him to understand that I was not here to harm him—I was here for help, even if it took this extreme measure to get it.

I was waiting for Robert to arrive at his office, my eyes wandering over the view outside. His office was a perfect reflection of who he truly was—opulent, imposing, and meticulously organized. I sat in a large chair, my back turned to the main door.

As I waited, the elevator doors slid open. Hearing footsteps, I quickly turned around, gun aimed directly at Robert. But to my surprise, Olivia and Joakim entered the room alongside him.

"Oh my God, Marcus!" Olivia exclaimed, her voice filled with shock. Joakim grasped her hand tightly, while Robert stood there with a knowing grin, as if he had been fully aware of my intentions. His gaze shifted to the ceiling, where a camera watched us.

"Marcus, this is Joakim," Robert said smoothly, lighting a cigar. "He's a more suitable candidate for the position at the Baker Company, which used to be yours. Joakim will be the new CEO of the Baker Company."

I kept the gun raised, my eyes locking onto Olivia's. I could sense the fear and disgust swirling in her expression.

"Marcus, put it down," she urged, attempting to approach me, but Joakim held her back.

"Don't get too close. Can't you see he's lost his mind? He was fine in the asylum where he was locked up," Joakim sneered, his tone condescending.

In a moment of panic, I redirected the gun toward Joakim, but then Olivia screamed at the top of her lungs, sending a jolt of fear through my heart.

"He's weak. He'll never go through with it," my father said, standing there with a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression one of disdain. "I can't believe you share my blood," he sneered, positioning himself behind Olivia and Joakim. I felt a surge of anger and pointed the gun at him again.

"Go ahead, shoot! Do something with your pathetic life!" Olivia screamed, her voice piercing through the chaos. In that moment, I found my finger pressing down on the trigger.

The deafening sound of the gunshot rang out, echoing in the confined space. Blood splattered. Panic erupted as screams filled the room. Suddenly, the fire alarm blared, and blue lights began to flash outside the building.

I bolted for the exit, glancing down to see Olivia lying on the floor, her eyes closed, surrounded by a pool of blood. I tried to run toward her, desperation clawing at my chest, but someone grabbed me, pulling me away from the scene.

"Go! Get out!" a voice shouted, but I couldn't see who it was as I was dragged toward the building's emergency exit. I didn't want to leave her behind, but the grip on my arm was unyielding, forcing me into the street.

Once outside, the sight was overwhelming. Police cars surrounded the building, their sirens blaring. My name echoed through every radio and TV broadcast, the weight of the moment crashing down on me.

"Do you understand, Doc?" I said, pressing the gun beneath my chin.

"Understand what? That you likely killed the woman you claimed to love?" he replied, his tone cold and detached. The pain inside me was unbearable, a gnawing ache that consumed every thought.

"I didn't!" I shouted, pointing the gun at the psychologist once more. "I fucking didn't!"

The doctor's composure began to crack. He raised his hands defensively and said, "So, you came here to kill me? Is that how you're going to quench your thirst for blood?" His words stung, but I wasn't a murderer. I hadn't killed anyone. It wasn't me!

I stepped closer, pressing the gun to his temple, my heart racing. But deep down, I knew I was better than this. Before I could think any further, I found myself backing away. He would have called the cops on me in an instant, so I bolted down the fire escape stairs.

I had no idea where to go; it felt like I was navigating a city that had become entirely foreign to me.

Weeks passed, and I found myself sleeping in various corners of the city's ghettos, avoiding any contact with others. I grew thinner and dirtier, scavenging for food whenever I could, sharing scraps with homeless people I encountered on the streets. But the escape I sought felt increasingly distant; I knew that sooner or later, I would have to confront the reality I was trying to evade.

"444 Maryland St." I kept my hoodie pulled tight, the fabric hiding my face as I navigated the city in search of this address. Public buses were off-limits for me, but after weeks of scavenging for spare change, I finally had enough to afford a cab.

I slid into the backseat, keeping my head down and the hood obscuring my features.

"Where to?" the driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"444 Maryland St," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He kept stealing glances at me as we drove, and my heart raced with anxiety. I felt like I was on the verge of being caught. Finally, we arrived at the destination. I fumbled for some crumpled bills, letting them fall onto the passenger seat before I hurriedly exited the cab.

With my hands buried deep in my pockets, I approached the dilapidated house, its peeling paint and cracked windows a stark reminder of my own struggles. I climbed the creaky front porch and knocked a few times, the sound echoing in the stillness.

After a moment, a familiar voice called out from inside, "How many times do I have to tell you I don't need drugs?"

I slowly revealed my face, and her shocked expression struck me.

"Marcus?" she gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"Hi, Anastasia," I responded, our eyes locking in a moment that felt both surreal and painfully real.