A faint but pungent scent of chemicals entered her nostrils, similar to that of bleach or antiseptic.

Her eyelids slowly pried themselves open, still heavy, slipping in and out of perception. But bit by bit as her vision came to be, the sight of a bright white ceiling soon became apparent to her. Suddenly, she was hyper-aware of every little sound in her surroundings; footsteps, metallic clinks, chattering and a soft but unceasing beep ringing right beside her.

She craned her neck to the side, wincing at how strenuous the movement felt, perplexed as she saw a monitor in the periphery- the source of the regulated beeps. Just beyond it, a mint colored curtain that kept her seperated from the rest of the space.

And it was just like that, that Tahlia knew she was in a hospital.

She tried to shift her chest to draw her body up, but she found herself restricted by something.

As soon as she glanced down her torso, her breath caught in her throat.

There were thin little translucent tubes stuck onto her arms. It wasn't the presence of the ducts itself that sent the first wave of chilling fear into her brain, but the realisation that those tubes were connected to her skin with the help of a fine needle.

Small droplets of sweat instantly collected on her forehead as an overwhelming feeling of nausea took over her body, arms slightly trembling as she gazed at the needle.

Suddenly, she wasn't in the hospital anymore.

She was back in the little house on 7 Dufresne Street. She was back in front of the mirror, watching her mother brush her frizzy but long locks vainly.

Then she was in her room, playing patty cake with her little sister, nectarine giggles going off in the air.

Then she was hiding behind the staircase with Emilia, both wide-eyed, as they watched their mother with a strange man. The stranger was inhaling lines of a white powder from the kitchen table, while her mother injected something into her arm.

And finally, she was back to that night.

She was gazing down at Emilia who wouldn't move or open her bright blue eyes, her angelic blonde hair stained red with the blood trickling out of her ears.

A flash of her mother lying unmoving on the floor with a syringe on her arm clouded her eyes for a millisecond, before suddenly it all stopped.

Tahlia stared at the little needle unfeelingly, lying still in the bed, as fright slowly but rapidly built up in her veins.

And it was precisely then that the thin line between fear and insanity started fading away.

A loud, ear-splitting shriek winded out of her throat. She reached for the ducts, attempting to yank it out of her skin maniacally.

As they didn't budge, more desperate screams left her mouth as she thrashed around in the bed, trying to pull it out of her.

She didn't hear the curtains being drawn back, as a nurse rushed in towards her bed.

She screamed hysterically, "Get it off! Get it off! GET IT OUT OF ME!"

She felt a hand hold her down by the shoulder staunchly, but she wouldn't stop flailing around like a rabid dog.

She kept repeating the same phrase over and over again, her senses spiralling out of control, not realizing that more people were gathering around her.

The next two minutes were a complete blur, but Tahlia soon felt her voice giving away. Her energy was diminishing and drowsiness was invading her brain again.

It was as she slowly ceased her vehement yelling, that she could hear just how loud and acute the beeping from the monitor had gotten.

She closed her eyes, an achromatic image encapturing Emilia's dulcet smile, the last thing she saw.

✴

Five Days Later

"The hypothermia has subsided and the frostbitten fingers are healing pretty well actually. No overt symptoms of PTSD yet. We should be thankful that the snowplow driver found her as soon as he did, otherwise I'd say we'd be looking at fourth degree frostbite."

The woman in the pristine white lab coat said to middle-aged suited up man, as they both glanced at the bed further down to their side, at the pale faced girl sitting up in it, staring at the plain wall impassively.

"She hasn't had any more..." The man trailed off, momentarily searching for the right word, "...attacks, has she?"

The doctor sighed, "Not as bad as the one she had when she first woke up. Did they tell you she tried to rip the IV catheter off her arm? Yeah, we had to sedate her. But I think she's slowly getting used to it, thank heavens."

The man nodded in acknowledgement, as the good doctor excused herself. He snuck another brief but gauging look at her, before starting to saunter down her direction.

"Natalia Meyers?"

Her detached gaze met his. The look in her eyes was hollow, yet harrowing, catching him off guard for a second.

"I'm special agent Wayne Gallagher. Do you mind if I talk to you right now?"

Her face remained stoic, "Where's Sergeant Randall?" She spoke softly, her voice hushed.

"As of seven days ago, the Westfield Ripper case is now under the jurisdiction of the FBI."

Tahlia felt herself flinch in the slightest, as the name 'Westfield Ripper' reached her ears.

"Well, like I said, I have some questions." He reached for the stool near the IV fluid bag, settling down. He couldn't help but glimpse at her hands. The medium-sized clip on her fingers, that he knew as the pulse oximeter, was not big enough to hide the pale bluish tips, nor the strange cuts that littered the entirety of her right palm.

"The statement that you gave to one Detective Hernandez yesterday, we will go forward assuming every word of that is true." He paused, meeting her eye, "Right?"

"Are you asking me if I lied?" She said, her tone calm, unemotional.

"No, of course not." He pursued his lips, "Did Hunt have another person with him at O'Reilly's?"

"O'Reilly's?" Tahlia murmured back confusedly.

"You said in your statement you were kept in a place with wooden walls with a fireplace in one of the rooms. We found a cabin not very far from where you were found, it matches the description. It's a hunting cabin owned by Frank O'Reilly, from Cape May. You ever heard of him?"

She shook her head, making Gallagher continue; "According to him, he hasn't been there in 7 months. We've found some more.. evidence..that Hunt may have kept his previous victims there too, the ones that came after he escaped the asylum I mean." He raised his brows,

"So was there someone else with him at the cabin?"

"Not that I knew of."

"Okay. You also said you were taken from the campus. Your boyfriend says you had borrowed his car to go somewhere, and that you were gone all day. May I know where that was?"

She looked away. Everything in her head was so hazy, but the part where she discovered Logan's possible accomplice was as clear as day.

She fell in a dilemma.

She wondered if she should tell him about Michelle.

But then, sooner or later, things she'd rather stay buried would come out. What if they caught Michelle and she told them all about how Tahlia broke in and got the key to Logan?

But at the same time, if Michelle was caught, that would be one step closer to catching Logan. One step closer to ensuring no more innocent women got hurt.

"Well?" Gallagher's voice brought her back.

Her lips twitched. Whose life did she ought to save first? Herself or the thousands of people at risk.

"I don't remember, I'm sorry."

Her conscience screamed at her, but what was done was done.

Gallagher nodded, not questioning it.

Post-traumatic amnesia wouldn't be unusual in someone like her.

But whether or not he really bought it, sensing that something was up, was a whole different thing.

He cleared his throat, "I'm gonna be straightforward about this. I know this may seem insensitive, given your family history, but I need to know if you had been abusing drugs during the time this happened."

The room seemingly fell silent, as Tahlia stared at the man.

"What?" She mumbled, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

He held up the large envelope he had had in his hands the entire time, motioning towards it, "A tox screen revealed that there was a considerate amount of Prozac in your system."

Her face blanched, heart beating a little faster.

"I have a prescription for that. I get panic attacks." She explained quickly, too quickly almost.

"A prescription for all 97 milligrams of it? Do you know anything above 80 mg might be considered an overdose?"

He eyed her suspiciously, making her shift under his steel-like stare.

"Why does it even matter?" She shook her head.

"Because, side effects of Prozac include hallucinations, psychosis and delirium."

Hallucinations.

Numerous instances came raining down on her, memories from the last three months that treaded the line between being real and a figment of her fucked up psyche. She saw her dead mother, her dead sister.

But this...

She glanced down at her hands, looking at the nicks, almost feeling the tip of a metal blade tearing into her fingers over and over again.

This was real.

"Do you think I made up my injuries and just went down to sleep in the middle of a forest, in a snowstorm?" She gritted her teeth.

"No." Another distinct voice sounded from behind Agent Gallagher.

Both Tahlia and Gallagher looked in the direction of the voice, finding a dark skinned woman walking towards her.

"What Agent Gallagher here is trying to say, is that the Prozac may have induced the altering of tiny details in your mind, I assure you we are not questioning your honesty Ms. Meyers."

Tahlia squinted her eyes, she could swear she knew the woman from somewhere.

"I'm Dr. Hoffman from the Behavioral Sciences Unit, FBI."

Tahlia's eyes widened as recognition befell her, "Wait, you're Jada Hoffman." She breathed, her voice subconsciously a little louder than before.

Jada Hoffman was the author of multiple Criminal Psychology books; books that happened to be a part of their syllabus.

That's why the face looked familiar, for it was one that she'd been looking at in class for the past year and a half, on the front cover of said books. Except of course, in real life she was missing the circular glasses and moustache that Jace had frivolously scribbled over her face on Tahlia's copy of the books.

She glave Tahlia a small smile, then turning to Gallagher, "Sorry I'm a little late, it's been a while since I've been here. I feel like a prodigal son."

Oh, and not to mention, she was a Westfield alumnus.

"Okay, I'm gonna go get a coffee. Why don't you talk with Ms. Meyers till I'm back." He said, his face unreadable as Hoffman nodded and he got up to leave.

She turned to Tahlia, cheery eyed, "So, Natalia, how are you feeling?"

"I can't feel my fingers and it's hard to breathe." She deadpanned.

"Fair enough." She exhaled, her smile slipping. "Forgive me, I'm not up to detail with this case. But I hear you're a fellow criminal psychology student."

Tahlia remained tight-lipped. She could tell Hoffman was just trying to get the conversation start flowing. Mind games, that's all these people could ever play.

"Well, why did you choose this? It's not a very popular field. Did you like psychology in school?"

Tahlia turned to her, figuring if Hoffman was not going to shut up with the questions, she might as well answer the ones that she could truthfully.

"I..I didn't even have psychology in my school. One of my science teachers told me about the Dr. Steve Craig memorial scholarship for criminal psychology and I decided to apply. I couldn't have afforded uni otherwise. Buying a laptop nearly cost me almost all of my savings."

And now there was nothing more she regretted than doing that.

"I believe you first met Hunt during a physical project?"

Tahlia nodded, making Hoffman knit her brows together, "I have to say, we never had any such projects. I didn't even see an actual perpetrator till I was doing my masters."

Her gaze ran along Tahlia's sunken eyes, the bruises and her arms. She sighed, placing a comforting hand on top of hers.

"It's alright. You're alive, you're a survivor. He can't hurt you now baby."

A tear formed in Tahlia's eye.

Not because Hoffman's words spoke to her, but because of just how wrong they were.

Every second she spent awake in the hospital, was a reminder of how she'd ended up there. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the frosty wind being pelted at her skin, the jagged glass cut into her back; and most importantly, she saw his face as he backed away from her, leaving her to die in the cold.

A part of her wished that he'd just stabbed her and ended her misery.

Every second of his existence haunted her, and there was no escaping it. There was no escape.

For you can escape a madman, but the madman cannot escape your mind.

✴✴✴