Revenge After Death

I continued to struggle, praying that Rachel wouldn’t leave, that she wouldn’t give Michael the chance to

take me away.

I was terrified….

I was terrified that he would actually take me to see Peter.

I was terrified of forgetting Steven.

“The patient is very weak. The child has been temporarily saved, but we need to observe her for a while. Meanwhile, she cannot endure any more stress,” the doctor explained to Michael before leaving.

“Thank you… Thank you, doctor.”

“I’m only doing my job.”

“How’s Stephie doing?”

Just when I thought I might wake up soon, I suddenly heard the voice of a middle–aged man.

It was Peter.

My nerves immediately tightened.

“Stephie hasn’t woken up yet, but the child has been saved.” Michael let out a sigh of relief.

“You need to get those two women arguing over there to leave and then take Stephie away.” Peter sounded somewhat displeased.

I panicked and wanted to open my eyes. I didn’t want him to take me away!

I didn’t know if my memory loss was related to Peter, but since he was a psychiatrist, I couldn’t trust him.

I even found him frightening.

“Mr. Peter, will it work?” Michael whispered.

“Don’t worry. It will work.” Peter sounded confidently.

The more confident he sounded, the more frightened I became.

Memories began to slowly resurface. © 2024 Nôv/el/Dram/a.Org.

I remembered my parents sending me to the mental hospital, where I met Peter.

My first impression of him was that he was terrifying.

His smile was too gentle. He called my name and said, “Stephie, come with me.”

He took my hand and led me down a long corridor. The wards were filled with patients wearing hospital gowns. I looked at them and then turned to see my crying parents standing at the end of the hallway.

They were desperate for me to become a normal, likable child.

“Stephie, here are two oranges. If I want one will you give it to me?” He took me to the therapy room to begin my assessment tests.

I looked at him indifferently, as if he were asking a foolish question I didn’t want to answer.

“Stephie, if you made a friend and she envied your two oranges and tried to steal them when you weren’t looking, how would you handle the situation?”

“Cut off her hands.”

I sounded cold in my memory, unlike that of a child my age.

My answer stunned the nurse standing nearby. She couldn’t believe it and asked Peter, “Is she really just five years old?”

They observed me for a while and even let me interact with other children. They allowed older, stronger children to bully me and watched me like I was an experiment.

In the end, without determining the cause of my condition, Peter diagnosed me with severe emotional and cognitive disorders.

I watched him through the glass window. Like an executioner, his voice chilling as he said, “Apply for transcranial magnetic stimulation combined with hypnotherapy for her. If the effect is not significant, then apply for electroconvulsive therapy.”

“Dr. Jones, she’s just a child.”

Peter took a sharp breath. “Have you ever seen teenage boys intimidated by a five–year–old girl?”

As my memories slowly cleared, I became even more frightened.

Peter’s so–called treatment for me involved hypnosis and physical stimulation.

No wonder I suffered memory loss.

If Michael handed me over to Peter, there was a high probability that I would forget everything again and

everything related to Steven.

*Stephie did forget a lot of things after her car accident. I was the one who didn’t cherish her.” Michael

pretended to act guilty.

The truth was he wanted me to lose my memory to keep me trapped.

I struggled in fear. I didn’t want to forget again, to repeat the cycle, to be trapped by Michael’s emotions, without being able to fight back!

“Steven…”

“Steve, save me…” I struggled desperately and cried out.

Steven, you had to come and save me!