Look at my hand. See that? It won’t stop shaking. I am not even cold. I am terrified. I need you to listen because in an hour, I might not even remember your name. I might not even remember mine.
I have spent ten years as a shrink for the worst people alive. My job is simple: I find the liars. I sit across from guys who say they “blanked out” while they did something awful. I am the one who tells the judge if they are faking it. I am the best at it. Or I was. Until I met Beckett.
Beckett was sitting in a metal chair in Room 4. He looked like a guy who sells you life insurance. Soft eyes. Clean fingernails. He confessed to killing six women. He gave every detail. He knew the color of their socks. He knew the smell of the perfume they wore. He was crying. He felt so much guilt it was like a physical weight in the room.
But something was wrong. It was too perfect.
Memories are messy. They are blurry around the edges. If you remember a fight you had three years ago, you don’t remember the exact serial number on the toaster in the background. But Beckett did. He was reciting facts like he was reading a script written in his own blood.
I leaned in close. I asked him what his mother’s kitchen smelled like when he was eight. He froze. His eyes went totally blank. It was like a screen turning off. Then he started shaking. Not a normal shake. A violent, rhythmic twitch.
“The file,” he whispered. “The file is blue.”
“Beckett?” I said. “What file?”
“I didn’t do it, Demi,” he said. His voice was different now. It was thin and sharp. “I can see the blood on my hands. I can feel the knife. But I wasn’t there. I was in a room with white lights. They put a crown on my head. It felt like needles. They showed me the pictures until the pictures became my life.”
I felt a sudden coldness in my chest. It was that feeling you get right before you fall down the stairs. I reached out to touch his arm, and he screamed. He wasn’t screaming at me. He was screaming at something inside his own skull.
I did something stupid then. I went looking for the source. I used my clearance to dig into the funding for Beckett’s holding cell. It didn’t come from the state. It came from a group called “The Nursery.”
I found the logs late last night. They aren’t just treating these guys. They are making them. They take people who don’t matter: the homeless, the lonely, the ones nobody will miss. They wipe the slate clean. Then they upload a monster. They turn a nobody into a “serial killer” to cover up hits on politicians or CEOs. If the “killer” gets caught, he confesses. He believes he did it. The case is closed. The real hitman walks away.
I was reading the last file when the lights in my office flickered. That’s when I saw the name at the bottom of the “Next Phase” list.
It was mine.
They don’t want to kill me. That’s too messy. They want to erase me. They want to turn me into a ghost who thinks she’s someone else.
I ran. I didn’t take my car. I didn’t go home. I’ve been sitting in this dive bar for three hours. Every time the door opens, my heart kicks against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I just tried to remember my first dog’s name. I know I had one. I can see a wagging tail. But the name is gone. It’s just… static. There is a humming sound in my ears that won’t go away. It sounds like a hornet stuck in a jar.
See that guy in the corner? The one with the gray jacket? He’s been looking at his watch every two minutes. He’s not drinking his beer. He’s waiting.
My head feels heavy. It feels like it’s full of wet sand. I’m trying to hold onto the truth, but it’s slippery. It’s like trying to catch water with your fingers.
If you see me tomorrow, and I don’t know who you are, don’t believe me. If I tell you I’m happy, or that I’m moving away, or that I’ve never seen you before in my life: call for help.
The humming is getting louder. It’s inside my teeth now.
He’s standing up. The guy in the gray jacket is coming over. He has a small black device in his hand. He’s smiling. It’s a kind smile. That’s the scariest part.
Stay still. Don’t look at him. Just listen to me one last time.
My name is Demi. I am a doctor. I am real.
I think… I think my name is Demi.
Wait.
Who did I say I was?