Perhaps there really was a hell, and he was in it now. A personal hell crafted just for him, where every second stretched into an eternity of torment, obliterating any illusion of peace he had once known.
The claws continued to rend his flesh, shredding and splitting it apart, until they reached deep into his core. Finally, they seized his heart, squeezing it with brutal force until it burst into a detonation of unbearable agony.
“Aarghh! Aarghh!” Alwin’s screams came out in weak, hoarse gasps, nearly drowned out by the cacophony of machines and lifeless noises around him. He wanted to scream louder, to release the agony inside him, but his voice was strangled, unable to pierce through the suffocating air filled with silence.
He awoke to a pain so searing it felt like his mind was being torn asunder.
Fuck… fuck…, his thoughts stuttered in a chaotic loop. I want to die… just die… it hurts so much!
To his horror, he realized a thick, invasive tube was lodged down his throat, choking off any attempt to cry out or even breathe freely.
Another tube, nasogastric, had been shoved through his nose, snaking down into his stomach to suction its contents with cold, mechanical efficiency.
The claws tormenting him turned out to be the hands of paramedics, desperately trying to restrain his convulsing, sweat-drenched body on a stretcher.
They were performing an intense resuscitation effort. Seeing their patient awaken and begin thrashing, they swiftly bound him with nylon straps, ensuring he could not escape the grip of consciousness that had been so violently restored to him.
“Oh, look who’s back with us. Tighten those restraints!” ordered a voice with chilling authority, a tone that cut through the chaos like a knife.
One of his family doctors.
“Stop fighting, Alwin. Just stay still for a moment,” the doctor said, pressing Alwin’s head down to shine a small flashlight into his dilated pupils. “Well, congratulations. You’re still alive. What’s with that look? Upset that you failed, huh?” he added with a sarcastic smirk that stung more than the sting of the needle now plunging into Alwin’s arm.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The curses rattled like a drumbeat in Alwin’s mind. The more he struggled, the tighter the straps dug into his skin, the deeper the pain gnawed at him. But he couldn’t stop resisting.
He refused to give in.
His thoughts spun frantically, searching for a way out, any way to escape. But his options were dwindling fast, especially now that his failed attempt to end his life had only resulted in increased scrutiny.
The medical staff surrounded him, vigilant, their eyes sharp and movements quicker now that they knew how desperate he was. Alwin’s thrashing grew more frenzied, fueled by the primal instinct to flee, even if he no longer knew where to run.
The doctor, his face an infuriating mask of calm, gave another order. “Prepare a sedative. Administer 10 milligrams of diazepam.”
Alwin could feel the needle piercing his skin, the cold liquid spreading through his bloodstream like an icy tide. His adrenaline-fueled body gradually began to weaken. His consciousness flickered, but he clung to it, desperately holding on to the last vestiges of his strength.
"Damn it," he muttered in a hoarse voice, his eyes half-closed as the sedative started to take effect.
The nurses tightened the restraints once more, ensuring there was no chance for him to fight back. The nylon straps bit into his skin, leaving raw red marks on his wrists and ankles, the pain a persistent sting that kept him tethered to reality.
The relentless sound of crying echoed through the sterile room, the shrill, piercing wails filling the air. To Alwin, it felt like thousands of needles pricking his eardrums, seeping into his brain and gnawing away at his sanity.
"Ah, just shut up!" he thought furiously, his jaw clenching tight to contain the fury that threatened to erupt.
Turning his head, he caught sight of her—his mother—standing at the bathroom doorway. She was sobbing hysterically, her eyes swollen and red, her face etched with lines of panic and dread. But for Alwin, the sight didn’t stir any sympathy. Instead, it only kindled a deep, crawling disgust within him.
He had always hated tears. Especially hers—tears he considered fake, overly dramatic, and utterly revolting.
The gurney he was strapped to started moving, its wheels clattering noisily against the hard floor. Two nurses at the front pushed hastily, while another stayed behind to keep the gurney steady as it rolled forward.
It was already late at night. The chill of the evening air struck him as they crossed the threshold. Outside, an ambulance waited, its siren blaring and lights flashing in a monotonous rhythm. The nurses lifted the gurney and slid it into the back of the ambulance.
The doors slammed shut with a heavy thud, echoing through Alwin’s fading consciousness. There was no escape, not tonight, not here.
"Stupid bitch," he cursed inwardly, just before the last sliver of his awareness slipped away, plunging him into the darkness.
*
Unexpectedly, the woman who claimed to be Alwin's mother was waiting in the hospital lobby. Arya introduced herself and was greeted with a weary, melancholic smile from Ranti.
"What happened on the rooftop... I just wanted to say thank you," Ranti began softly.
"Thank you? For what, Ma'am?"
"Don't lie to me. I know what Alwin is like. You must've tried to stop him, didn’t you?"
Arya froze, unable to hide her surprise.
"He’ll do whatever he wants without caring about anyone else's feelings. He’s always been like that," Ranti continued, wrapping her arms around herself. The cream-colored knitted cardigan she wore made her pale face appear almost ethereal, even without makeup.
Meanwhile, Arya found herself momentarily distracted, admiring the woman's striking beauty. Oh, so that's where Alwin gets his superhuman DNA, Arya thought wryly.
"But after waking up from the coma, he changed," Ranti went on, her voice tinged with exhaustion. "From someone obsessed with having it all to someone determined to end it all. But one thing stayed the same—he’s always been a monster since the day he was born."
Her words hung heavily in the air as they walked down the long hospital corridor toward Alwin’s room. The silence between them grew, thick and suffocating.
"Once he's stable," Ranti finally said, her voice cold and resolute, "Alwin will be transferred to a psychiatric institution for further treatment."
"No, don't," Arya interrupted, her voice unexpectedly firm after the long silence. "I may not have known Alwin for long, but I can tell he’s not a monster. If you trust me, give me one month. I promise I can make a difference."
"A month?" Ranti stared at Arya in disbelief. She had spent her entire life trying, and failing, to change Alwin. Yet here was this young woman, asking for just one month. The shock was evident in her eyes.
Arya nodded with quiet determination. "One month. And if within that time Alwin acts out again, you can go ahead with your plan."
Ranti’s eyes narrowed, doubt flickering behind them, but she couldn't deny the fire in Arya’s gaze.
"A month?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, as if testing the weight of that word. She had spent years battling Alwin’s darkness, and now this stranger thought she could change him in mere weeks.
