The Curious Case Of Frank Dawson.

      Do you ever hear them?

      The voices in your head?

      You know what I'm talking about. The voices that tell you to do something, good or bad, right or wrong. The voices of reasoning, of mischief, or fear and the like. People have long described them as the angel and the demon sitting on the shoulders of man, but those are very vague terms to describe the voices.  The voices are more than angels and demons. That's according to one of my patients, Frank Dawson.

      Frank Dawson was admitted to Leicester Asylum after confessing to the murder of his brother. He was always seen around the Asylum with either a gloomy look or a psychopathic smile on his pale face. If his facial expressions weren't considered unusual, there was another thing strange about him. His pale face. Most, if not all of the patients had skin tones varying from beige to almost black. However, Frank was the only one with pale, snowy skin. I brushed it off as a minor physical condition but to others, it almost seemed like he had been possessed, coupled with his almost bloodshot eyes and his tendency to speak in foreign, almost undecipherable and uncomprehensible languages. I had diagnosed Frank with bipolar disorder, hysteria, and referred him to the in-house optometrist for his eyes. Overall, Frank was an everyday patient who had the occasional outburst every now and again. Everything seemed fine, until one night...

     A blood-curdling scream burst from Ward 404. It wasn't just any ward and scream. The ward was that of Frank Dawson, and the scream came from him as well. I woke up with a jolt and dashed towards the ward, alongside the other doctors and a few assistants. As we entered the ward, we saw it. 

     The dead, lifeless body of Frank Dawson.
    
      A butcher knife had been plunged into his back, his body lying face down on the cold, hard, concrete floor. Scarlet blood was splattered all around the knife and the wound, staining Frank's white shirt with blood, blood which I knew the hardest of scrubbings and washings could not remove. Just then, an ominous cold breeze blew into the ward, slightly tipping over Frank's corpse. That tipping was enough for me to notice, out of the corner of my eye, that he was holding something in his pale, lifeless left hand. I trudged towards Frank, my eyes fixated on the mysterious item in his hand. I could hear the other doctors call out my name, telling me to stop, but curiosity took over my senses, rendering their pleas almost inaudible to me. As I neared, I realised that the item was a letter. Picking it up from his left hand, I opened it and read it. This is what the letter said.

      "To whom this may concern,
        These are the final written words of Frank Daniel Dawson, the writer of this letter. This letter would have been found along with my corpse. This means that the voices in my head have become more than voices. They have become real, sentient, material beings and have murdered me. The voices of rage, of sadness, of mischief, of madness etc etc. I know I have committed many a sin, so may the one above forgive me. However, I know one thing is for sure. I did not kill my brother. I tried my best to convince everyone, but they wouldn't listen. Oh, how I tried to convince them!

     Please, if you read this, believe me. The voices in my head, my voices, were the ones who killed my brother. And I know I am next.

    With that, I apologize to everyone who I have ever brought sadness to. I did not mean to. I never meant it. I thought they were good. I thought the voices were good. But they were the opposite, the complete opposite. So, please, as my dying wish, reader(s) of this letter, don't listen to your voices if they ask you to do anything. You are strong enough to know that you can make your own choices and not have anyone or anything advise you on what to do. For my sake, please don't listen to the voices, no matter how persuasive they may sound."
      
       -FDD

    I stood there, rooted to the spot like an oak tree. I didn't think much of any of the patients at the Asylum, but upon reading the letter, my perspective of them changed. Especially my perspective of Frank. I'd always thought he was a lost cause, a person who'd live a life of sadness and misery without anyone to look out for him, but I realised he was so much more than that. So, so much more.

   I quietly tucked the letter away in my coat pocket, making sure that no one noticed it. With a tap on my shoulder, James, a colleague of mine, came up to me and informed me that they were going to take Frank's body for an autopsy to determine the cause of death. I nodded my head in acknowledgement, before walking away slowly back to my room.

   In my room, I made sure to lock the door and turn on the lamp. Just the lamp. Ambience does a lot to a person's perspective and emotions, y'know. I sat down at my desk and reread Frank's letter again, and again. Regret and enquiry flooded my mind. "Why would Frank do this? Why didn't I try and understand him better?" I muttered to myself, as tears of sadness rolled down my cheeks. Just then, I heard a tap on my door. A note slid in to my room through the small space between the floor and the door, as a silhouette disappeared from the translucent glass panel covering the top half of the door. I picked up the note, unlocking the door at the same time. I peeked outside to see if there was anyone there, but the corridor was empty, Closing the door and locking it once again, I read the note.

    It simply said, "You're next."

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