A KILLER'S DIARY

01||

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THE DISTINCT scent of laundry detergent mingled with the persistent beeping echoing in my ears, while dim light filtered over my heavy eyelids. The environment was familiar yet bland, mirroring the fog in my mind.

Slowly, the darkness began to lift like a heavy curtain drawn back, dispelling my oblivion. Confusion enveloped me at first—a hazy awareness of sound and light. Blurred faces hovered above, their voices distant, muffled like echoes in a tunnel.

As colors seeped into my consciousness, the sterile white of the room contrasted sharply with the vibrant greens and blues of the machines. My awareness sharpened, and I became acutely aware of sensations—the weight of the sheets, a strange comfort warming my chest. A prickling along my skin drew my attention to the IV lines in my arms, reporting to the monitors.

Then, a wave of emotions surged—fear, confusion, but also relief. Memories flickered like fireflies—faces, voices, laughter—intermixed with a disorienting void where time had slipped away. But why did everything feel so distant?

The faces leaned closer, eyes wide with hope and apprehension. A soft voice broke through the fog, calling a name. My name, perhaps. The urgency in the voice tugged at my heart, the familiarity prompting me to believe I knew it, but from where? The world was waiting, and they were just beginning to return.

A chilling wave of dread washed over me as the unsettling truth settled in my mind: I could not feel my legs. Panic gripped my chest, tightening with each breath as I grappled with the disconcerting knowledge that I was trapped in a body that had suddenly betrayed me.

The doctors diagnosed me with amnesia two months after I woke, leaving me to navigate a foggy landscape of forgotten memories and lost identity. Lin Parker, originally named Lin Cameron, was my name, but it felt like I stood at a crossroads of confusion and uncertainty.

The name Lin Parker felt both familiar and foreign, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. Shadows of my former life loomed just out of reach, haunting reminders of what I had lost.

A question plagued my mind since waking: What were Einstein's last words? Did he say something profound about science? A final revelation?

Sitting in a wheelchair, I gazed out the window as if peering into another world. Sunlight filtered through the glass, casting a warm glow on my pale, corpse-like skin, but it did little to dispel the chill of my thoughts. My mind swirled with questions that refused to settle, and I couldn’t shake off the specter of Einstein.

I would never know what he said in those final moments, for he spoke German, and the only person present was his English-speaking nurse, a stranger to the language of his heart. In that critical moment, she could not translate his last utterance. Now, we were all left in ignorance, deprived of the wisdom he might have imparted.

The thought gnawed at me, a reminder of how fleeting and fragile our understanding of life can be.

I imagined Einstein's voice, rich with emotion and insight. Did he speak of theories yet unproven, or perhaps reflect on the universe's beauty? Did he express love for his family or regret for lost time? The possibilities swirled in my mind like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind, each representing a fragment of potential knowledge forever out of reach.

As I continued to stare out at the world—trees swaying gently, people moving with purpose—I felt an overwhelming sense of longing. I wished to be out there, not trapped in a hospital, staring at the four walls of my room.