I take my dixie cup full of pills of every color in the rainbow and blanch at the taste of the rusty water that chases them down my throat. The clock ticks down every second and matches with the beating of my heart. A week later and I’m still pumped full of adrenaline. I’m scared that they’ll come back for me and I’ll be stuck there until my misery ends. At least they wouldn’t have to give me new clothes since I’m still in my institution-blue button-up dress and grey Sperry tennis shoes.

The  fluorescent lights remind me of that prison I escaped; the constant flickering brings an ominous feeling to the kitchen. I look around the spacious flat that I had once called home. I think it’s exceptionally hilarious how everything is just as it was before I was taken away, though the smell of settled dust reminds me how long I’ve been away. My meds are even here still. I figure my prescription is the same. I still see things though. Damn pills sometimes just don’t work. But they keep my moods in check; sometimes I feel like I’m floating on a cloud when I take my rainbow pills. I can’t have another breakdown. I can’t end up back in that place.

They thought I was crazy. I’m not. I”M NOT. I’m just misunderstood. And I swear I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t have. I loved him. Still do. But they didn’t believe me. They sent me to that place and let them destroy me: shaved my head, locked me up in a tiny cell, and mocked me every single minute of every single day that I was there.

I shake the painful and unwanted memories away as I walk upstairs to continue getting ready for bed. I head into my bathroom and look in the mirror.

You’re a murderer. You’re crazy, insane, unstable, guilty. You’re a freak. You don’t deserve to be alive when he’s dead. You killed him. You’re crazy. You killed him. YOU KILLED HIM, YOU CRAZY B****!

I scream as the voices come back. I thought they were gone. I don’t want to believe what they say, but as I look into my dingy bathroom mirror, look at my choppy straw hair that has just started to grow back, look at the scars from my latest psychotic breakdown, I can’t help but think that the voices are right. I am crazy. I am a killer.

“Yes, Lara. You are.”

My breathing stops in my lungs as I turn around to face my intruder. I see his face but I look down at his work clothes for his name tag to confirm my guess. It's him. My God it's him.

Kit.

His skin is a sickly gray, that of someone who’s been in the cold way too long, not his signature tan. His green eyes lack their usual luster, and there are stab wounds marring his broad chest. They still ooze blood. I feel an overwhelming amount of guilt settle in my gut.

I close my eyes and face the mirror telling myself he isnt here; he isn’t real. I open my eyes to see only my reflection. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn around to go to my room. I’m met by Kit’s ghostly face. I hold in a scream.

"What are you doing here?" I shakily ask as I move my gaze up to his hard-set eyes.

His eyes darken even more and he sets his jaw.

“Making you pay for what you did,” he says in a gravelly voice. Before I can react, he charges toward me. Whoosh! The air is knock out of me as I’m slammed me against the sink and banging my head into the mirror, causing it to shatter. I feel the warm trickle of blood ooze down my scalp to my spine, soaking my clothes on the way.

“You crazy b****! You killed me! YOU KILLED ME!” Kit screams as he shoves me out of the bathroom and onto my bedroom floor. I try to scramble back and shake off the shock, but he snatches my ankle and drags me toward him. Crawling on top of me he places both hands around my neck  and applies an immense amount of pressure, cutting my air off.

I choke, trying to speak, trying to tell him to get off of me. Kit lifts my head off the floor and pounds it on the hardwood.

“Just die already!” he yells, banging my head on the wood floors repeatedly. But I hold on. I hold on just like I always do, always did.

I knee him in the crotch and his grip loosens a fraction, but it’s enough. I elbow him in the nose and he jerks back. Then, I sucker punch him, and although my attempts are feeble, they catch him off guard. And it’s enough. I’m able to get up and run down stairs to my front door. I can hear him coming after me.

Just as I’m about to unlock the door, I’m yanked back by my hair. I release a cry as he throws me toward the couch. I grab the nearby lamp and slam it over his head when he gets close enough.

“You b****!” He slaps me, but this time I don’t fall to the ground, because Kit’s hauling me toward the huge floor-to-ceiling window.

“You’re gonna pay for what you did!” He repeats it so many times, like he’s talking to himself, all the while I’m struggling against him, but his grip is like steel. There’s only a couple yards between us and the window. I do the only thing I can think of: I scream. I scream for help because I don’t want to die. Even though I don’t want to go back to the institution, it seems better than dying at the moment. But my screams only fuel Kit’s desire to kill me.

“HEL-” I’m cut off by the tinkling of shattering glass and the whooshing of air as I plummet to the ground, alone.