That Night in the Woods

NOAHI was only 3 years old when my dad killed my mom. It was more of an accident; he unintentionally left the stove open. The LPG particles kept dashing out through the holes of the stovetop; the moment mom lit up her scented candle, tiny flares transformed into a blaze that grasped the appearance of a galactic fire roaring at the lake before it. Jenny and I were squabbling about who would get the chance to throw the ball for Coco first, as she stood beside me wagging her tail avidly, expecting any one of us to pitch the ball in the air at any moment for her to tail. Dad perceived fumes rushing out of the window of our lake house from hundred yards. He hurriedly sprinted towards the house and unbolted the door, only to discover an inferno that had engulfed the entire residence from inside and was dashing towards the rooftop. Mom was scarcely visible to dad’s sight. He was continuously crying her name at the top of his lungs and strived to breach the barrier of flames a couple of time

NOAH I took my shoes off and kept them on the porch. Mom's room door was wide open. The bed was empty. She wasn't there. Must've been to the bathroom. I took everything out of the bags and began preparing for breakfast. All of the crockeries were kept just as mom used to set them. But with a thick layer of dust. I spent more than half an hour washing a few dishes. That girl still hadn't come out. As time passed, my suspicion grew stronger that something was wrong. I hit an egg against the edge of the bowl. It was a mess. Reminded me of the time when dad smacked me in the face with an egg. I was eight. Jenny and I were playing Tag. Right when dad threw an egg at a cockroach on the kitchen wall, I ran in. No sane man would do that. Dad was sane. But he was paranoid about insects that could fly. I washed my hands and went to check on that girl. The bathroom door wasn't locked. There was no one inside. "Hey?" She was probably gone. I could see that she was reluctant to stay

Noah The only subject for argument over these past months between us has been my refusal to visit a psychiatrist and Ella forcing me into it. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to ask for. What I needed to get peace. I wasn’t satisfied with my life. Even though I had a reason to. I could just ignore everything. And focus on my family. My wife. My future children. I didn’t know how to tell about my feelings. Feelings about Jenny luring me to meet everyone. But I hated it when she says that. I wanted to forget that I was the reason they died. I remember how she said to me that if mom knew she would be very disappointed. It was a mistake. Just a mistake. That cost me everything. And cost them their lives. I wiped my tears. My head rested on a squashy grey pillow while my eyes gazed out of the glass window at a lonely nightingale perched on a branch of the tree. Its head turned towards me; eyes set on mine. A moment later it cruised through the air scanning the ground below.

OLIVIA I opened the door and let the ward boys in. They unbolted the handcuffs, grasped both of Noah’s arms, and took him to Lane’s office through a narrow hallway. I could tell he was in anguish, in extreme agony. Lane is one of the senior psychiatrists at The Montana Mental Health Institution. He is a white bald man, who appears as a beast but has a heart of an angel. No one in this place is capable of controlling the patients in the way he does. I recollect a memory when we had a patient named Arthur Brown. He was huge and menacing. Nobody would dare to go within his reach, this man used to sit beside him when he was not handcuffed. To everyone’s astonishment, Lane would walk out of Arthur’s room alive and untouched. Noah sat in the chair before Lane’s desk, he seemed drowsy. His long grey sleeves reached till his fingers; he was staring at Lane with a piercing glare. “I’m going to spend the next couple of sessions interrogating you about your health and life. Is that okay wi

Olivia 4 days later I rotated the doorknob and pushed it open. Noah lay in the dark on his bed snoring. I pressed the switch on the wall on my right to light up one of the bulbs. On swinging the curtains to one side, the glimmering golden coin set in the sky beamed at me. “Hey good, you’re up. How are you feeling?” “Pretty good actually. Way better,” Noah uttered reposing his head on the headboard of his bed. Rude awakening. Last night he sited on his thin mattress with his prominent cheekbones descended, head hung with a feeling of blue. Those symptoms were divulging something significant. The evening I first encountered him he was reluctant to be injected but then in a few moments, he didn’t resist at all. “Great, do you think that you’re ready to go out to the cafeteria, for breakfast?” “Yeah,” he exclaimed. He scooted off to the hallway. The chimes of my phone tore through the air. It was Lane. “Hey, how’s it going?” “Well. I wanted to check on that guy Noah,