Into The Woods

Chapter 5

Maya POV

"What do you remember of that day?" the officer asked me. His hazel eyes watched me closely and flitted over my battered body. He scrubbed a hand down his face as if he was tired of this interview already. I was sitting in a hospital bed. My entire body was bruised, and cut to pieces. Blood was still stuck under my fingernails and caked in my hair. I want a shower so that I could wash what happened away from me, even though I know the hot water won’t make me forget. Even now, I can still feel his blade against my skin. My hands shook horribly as the officer tried to hand me a glass of water, the water sloshed over the sides as I brought it to my lips, taking a sip. However, I get no relief from the cold liquid as I try to swallow it. Why was I still alive? I didn't understand it. He killed my family. Yet here I am, still breathing.

Thinking hard, I remember his face, how it twisted in a sadistic way when I awoke on the living room floor—the malice in his eyes, the eyes of a monster that would haunt me until my dying breath. I couldn't tell the officer anything because I couldn't remember anything after he slaughtered my parents; even the memories before that day were hard to piece together now. He had brought me down to watch their s*******r. Something inside of me had broken when he made me watch.

Pieces of my memory were gone, and I couldn't explain it. Only fragmented parts remained, and I had trouble discerning what was real and what was just my imagination. Some part of me remembers a ferocious growl and the sounds of the mauling as my father was killed.

"I...I can't...I don't know," I grit out, trying to remember anything from that day. I feel sick, it's like my own mind doesn’t want to remember anything of that day.

"It's alright… we can try again later," the officer tells me as he pats my knee gently. Nothing made sense. How could I lose so much of my memory? All I remembered was going home after work. That was the first time he got into my house, he was angry about something, yet I couldn't remember what he was mad about. For months, maybe longer he has watched me but never entered until that day. I could only remember the look of pure anger on his face as I placed my purse on the kitchen counter and walked into a stranger sitting at my table.

I remember how he stalked over to me, and everything else was black? I awoke on the floor, fled, grabbed my car, and drove across two states to my parent's house. I couldn’t remember what had happened, and I knew I had to escape. All I remember is a man being in my apartment.

"We spoke to your work colleagues. They said you have mental health issues and that you would speak of someone stalking you. We also checked records and found three police reports, yet nothing was caught on the CCTV, and no evidence was ever found?”

How was that possible? I didn't make this s**t up. Did they seriously think it was an animal attack, like the responding officers claimed? I saw him. I remember that much.

"Do you think I made him up?" I ask the officer, and he shakes his head and sighs loudly. Is that why no one is taking this seriously? I know he’s real, and he’ll come back for me. I just know it.

"No, we are just curious because you have an extensive record of mental health issues. Your parents have admitted multiple times during your childhood and adolescent years that you're diagnosed with schizophrenia?" the officer tells me. They never believed me, my parents didn't when I first saw him when I was teenager. All these years he watches, biding his time, until now. It makes me curious why he suddenly stepped out of the shadows to stake a claim to me. I don't need meds, haven't in years or anything, yet it always comes back as you are crazy.

“You said you ran back to your parents after you claimed someone was in your apartment. Why didn't you come to the police?”

Because I was scared, you half-wit, I wanted to go home because the police never took my claims seriously. I wanted to scream at him, as if I could have predicted this. It made no sense and the fact that no one seems to have ever seen him makes it so much harder. There had to be some proof he existed. What about fingerprints or blood samples, hair, anything?

My memory was grainy. Events before that day were somewhat clear, though. I could remember everything, just not much of that night or the day before, mostly the sounds, my parent's screams, only the look on his face and then nothing but darkness. As if my mind had blocked it all out. The state I was in was enough reason to try to forget it all, whatever happened that night had been nothing less than a nightmare.

"The doctor told me they have someone from the mental health department coming to do an evaluation today. We will just wait until then before continuing," the officer tells me. They thought I was nuts. Mental health, were they going to lock me up? If it was all a figment of my imagination, how do they explain away my parents' deaths? Surely in a bear attack, one of us would have gotten away. Not all stood in one place to be slaughtered. Or another thought crosses my mind. Do they think I killed them?

My stomach twists at this thought and I observe the officers, they keep mentioning my mental health. I wanted justice for my parents and I know he did it, I just wish he believed that. That anyone believed me.

Something wasn't right. I knew that much. One thing I knew was I had to get the hell out of here and away from this city. Go somewhere where he could never find me. I could work online. That was the beauty of being an editor; I could start fresh, go freelance, and work from home. It was unnecessary for me to be face-to-face with people to do my job. I just needed to make sure that where I go has cell service, somewhere away from people. Somewhere he would never look for me. Yet, what would I do with my parent's house? I had funeral arrangements, so much to do, and now a psych assessment.

The officers stare at each other, and I open my mouth to ask what is wrong, not having seen the nurse come in until I feel the pinch in my thigh. I glance down as she pulls the needle from my leg. I glare at her and she gives me a soft look.

“It’s for your own good. We will get you the help you need,” she whispers, brushing my cheek as my eyelids grow heavy and the room spins.

Realization hits and my mind screams in panic. No! No, I couldn’t go back there again. I didn’t do this! These are the people who should be helping me, not shutting me away!

Why is this happening to me? Why is life so unfair?