(Chapter 1 – It's A Long Way Down)

After the "incident" at Beacon Mental Hospital, my therapist thought it would be best if I wrote out my experiences. Apparently, the fact that I still refuse to talk to him about it is a sign that I "have not come to terms with the matter", and this seems to concern him. He says I shouldn't bottle everything up after what I've been through with the killings in the hospital.

But can't it just be enough that I don't want to talk about it? – No, not for him. Even if I could tell him everything, he wouldn't believe me. No one knows the truth about Beacon except for us unfortunate few who were there to witness it. If anything, the longer that I put it off, the more hope there is of me forgetting – and God I wish I could. What I've seen, what painful memories were divulged after years of suppression will forever haunt me.

The faces of those I've watched die, and those I've killed still flash before my eyes before I fall asleep at night. And somehow, I'm supposed to be able to talk about it as if it were not the tragedy it was? And somehow I'm supposed to talk about this to him? The man won't even let me open my mouth without wanting to prescribe me some form of anxiety medication – which I refuse to take. I was a nurse; I know the side effects – heck, I used to give some of those meds to patients I worked with. I've seen what they can do when they go wrong...

But, I digress. I won't bore you with the tediousness of my day-to-day life, (though you are only an inanimate word document that I write in on my laptop.)

So, here we are now - you and I that is; my little sanctuary to completely spill my guts to. With that gruesome image in mind, I suppose I should get on with it.

As cliché as it sounds, it started out as any normal day would. Though, I suppose I should tell you what the daily job of a nurse at a scandal-ridden mental hospital consists of…

I made my rounds, checking in on patients. Basically, helping out wherever I could. Once again, not saying anything about yet another "missing" patient: Mr. Harold Fowler, a 63 year old chronic schizophrenic who loved to grab the female nurses inappropriately. Believe me, I learned my lesson the last time.

I happened to ask one day what had happened to a patient that was newly admitted: Kelli Randal, a 15 year old sufferer of split personality disorder and chronic depression. Apparently, she would become so violent that her parents had no choice but to admit her. I had been working with her quite frequently, but one day I came to her room and she was nowhere to be found. In fact, her room was vacant. When I happened to inquire Dr. Jimenez about what had happened, I was threatened with not only losing my job, but never being able to find employment again. So from that moment on, I kept my mouth shut while constantly battling with myself over seeking work at Krimson General instead.

For the most part, up until 6:45 pm, things were going fine. You could say they were even boringly normal, however that was until the ringing started. It was faint at first, like maybe the speakers from the intercom were giving feedback, which wasn't unusual considering the dated technology. I thought nothing of it and continued on with my paperwork. But the feedback grew louder, more dominant. It seeped into the mind and burrowed itself inside, scratching and clawing away until it felt like I would die from the excruciating pain. I covered my ears in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise, but to no avail. It remained constant, unrelenting despite every attempt I made to make it stop. I dropped to my knees on the floor.

Then, just like that, the noise was gone. Screams echoed down the halls. Those outside gagged as their throats were sliced. Bodies collapsed onto the floor from all directions. Blood splattered onto the walls, sprinkling onto the window that served as my only view to the slaughter. I scrambled to hide under the desk, pulling the chair in front of me to provide some sort of concealment. I watched as terrified faces dashed back and forth down the corridor to flee from whatever was causing the massacre, only to soon meet the same demise.

God, help me, I thought.

Tears of absolute fright welled in my eyes as I tried to stifle my crying with a shaking hand. I knew the best thing I could do was stay quiet. My heart pounded in my chest, filling my ears with the jagged beat. My breathing quickened, each inhale intensifying the sickening anxiety inside. I could only wait for the door to burst open and the murderer to find me.

I'm going to die.

As quickly as the massacre started, it stopped. Everything was silent. The only other sound to be heard was the steady drip of blood on the tile floor. Huddled with my arms wrapped around my knees, I listened for any sign of life. In a mix of relief and terror, I was met with nothing. With hesitation, I dared to crawl out from under the desk. Shaky legs wobbled as I stood to peer out the window beside the door into the hallway.

All I could see was red; blood washed every inch of the corridor. The corpses of my coworkers were strewn here and there as if they were dolls thrown carelessly by a small child. The sight was sickening, reducing me to tears and making me heave with nausea.

Running only on pure adrenaline, I was unable to think clearly. I began hyperventilating. All I knew was that I had to get out of there. So, with the feebleness of a newborn, I opened the door to the hallway. Peeking around both sides of the doorframe, I was only surrounded with the bodies of the deceased. A sob escaped my lips; I raised a shaking hand to my mouth. With the opportunity presented, I forced myself to walk to the lobby.

I tip-toed to the main entrance, stepping over mutilated bodies and shoving wheelchairs and gurneys out of my way. Once I reached the double doors I gently pushed them open, revealing the extent of the catastrophe.

All of those once familiar faces just lay there completely lifeless, almost unrecognizable in their current state. Doctors, nurses, and patients all lay dead in their own pools of still warm crimson. Each victim expressed a look of pure horror on their faces. Some still sat upright in the cushioned chairs of the sitting area, while a couple fell limp at my passing. One corpse of a patient even held a picture book in his right hand, lifeless eyes staring at it as though still intently observing. Tables were turned over on their sides as well as one of the many faux bushes located inside the entry.

Plink

The steady dripping of the crimson liquid that had been sprayed onto a plant in the center of the room was the only sound to be heard.

Plink

I crept over bodies one at a time to make my way to the receptionist's desk phone to call 911. With each step, I landed in the sticky liquid that stained my white tennis shoes red.

Plink

I arrived at the desk, and gently pushed the dead receptionist's cold hand away from the phone to use it. Tears continued to fall as I mulled over what I should say. Truth be told, I don't really remember dialing the phone; however there is one distinct feature I do recall.

Plink

A cold hand latched onto shoulder with a tightened grip. The owner turned me around to face him; he relished in watching his victims' last expressions as he mutilated them. I remember his glowing argent eyes, intense with the fire of hatred and madness. The owner paused, studying me as recognition widened them. The needle he gripped in his right hand stopped mid-air before it could slice at my jugular.

"Alice," he whispered, tone low and ladened with surprise despite its eerily calm quality.

Plink

My eyes stared back, widened and betraying the utter horror I felt in his presence. No words would make themselves known after my name left his lips. I was easy prey. In my stunned state, I succumbed to whatever fate he decided for me; for all I knew, this would be the end. But little did I know that this was merely the prelude of the journey that would shake my entire life.

Plink

Next thing I knew, I was swimming in an ocean of darkness.