My name is Lena Errol and I murdered my twin sister five years ago. The thing is, I don't recall anything...

Set in the turn of the twentieth century and explores the psychiatric ward.


2. Home


 I was thirteen when they said that I could go home. And I was stupid enough to think of home.

Just for one moment, just for one blissful, foolish moment, I saw the nails and posts and pales of the picket fence, which were white geometric perfection. I could feel the light breeze playing with my blonde hair and tickling my pale scalp as I watched the sun set on a Summer's evening.

Although old, the white cottage stood strong and proud, conserving most of its original, well preserved features. Shaded by the ancient cherry tree and guarded by posies was a wooden bench with arms and legs of iron. A bird bath stood adjacent to it where sparrows would take shy sips.

A low growl. The sparrows jumped and flew away, their wings almost beating as fast as their diminutive hearts. The sky suddenly darkened. Shadows crept about, painting everything in their wake black. The wind stepped up a pace and sent its icy tendrils down my spine. Faster, faster, the wind howled and the cherry tree shook violently. Its strong and ancient roots uplifted and it collapsed into the roof, the shingles falling and scraping the white walls, smashing the windows. The glass littered the garden and the white roses bled. The walls began to leak red tears and the ground absorbed the sorrow and horror that had tainted this home.

The voices. They whispered to me but the enraged wind snatched them away before I could make sense of them. Screams: they deafened me. Shattered my heart.

Pleads for help. Accusations. Unhealthy laughter. They pummelled me to the ground and sucked the life out of me.

And left me to drown in the raging sea of blood.

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