Chapter 3 3

Dr. Albright's pen hovered over the lined paper. Her eyes were sharp, analyzing his posture, his breathing, the tension in his jaw.

Erich slowly walked away from the window. He sank into the fabric armchair, intentionally slumping his shoulders. He dropped his gaze to the geometric pattern on the rug, forcing his eyes to lose focus.

"I don't remember," he said. His voice was dry, cracking slightly at the edges. "My head feels like it's packed with wet cotton. Even breathing feels exhausting."

Dr. Albright frowned. She lowered her pen and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk.

"When you say you don't remember, Erich, are you referring to the night of the incident? Or before that?"

Erich laced his fingers together in his lap. He pressed his right thumb hard into his left knuckle, digging the nail in until a sharp spike of pain shot up his arm. The pain forced a genuine rush of moisture to his eyes.

"Everything," he whispered.

Dr. Albright quickly flipped through the pages in his file. "An overdose of that magnitude can certainly cause short-term memory fragmentation. But it usually presents with severe cognitive delay."

She was testing him.

Erich didn't miss a beat. "Today is Thursday, October 14th. We drove here down Route 9. The receptionist was wearing a green sweater." He recited the facts with terrifying clarity.

Surprise flickered across Dr. Albright's face. The hysterical, weeping boy she had treated for six months was gone. The person sitting in front of her was completely lucid, yet emotionally dead.

She decided to push harder. She went for the open wound.

"Do you remember New York? The art academy? The reason you had to leave?"

Erich's heart slammed against his ribs. He had no idea what she was talking about. But he kept his face completely paralyzed. He slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"So what?" he asked, his voice dripping with absolute apathy.

Dr. Albright blinked. She was used to Erich breaking down into hyperventilation the second the academy was mentioned. This icy indifference completely threw her off balance.

She picked up her pen and dragged a heavy line across the paper. Emotional isolation mechanism activated. Suspected post-traumatic dissociation.

Erich watched the movement of her pen. The tension in his chest loosened slightly. He had won. He had successfully weaponized psychology against the psychologist.

To solidify his control over the narrative, Erich suddenly stood up.

He walked over to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. He stared at his reflection. His hair was a greasy, tangled mess that hung past his shoulders, completely obscuring his face.

It was the exact same length Erik had forced him to keep in his past life. Erik liked pulling it.

A wave of nausea hit Erich so hard he had to grip the edges of the mirror to stay upright.

He turned his head to look at Dr. Albright. His eyes were burning with a manic, desperate intensity.

"I need to cut it off," he demanded.

Dr. Albright froze. "Your hair? Erich, for the past six months, you've refused to let anyone near you with scissors. You said it made you feel safe."

"It's too heavy," Erich said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "It's suffocating me. I want it gone. I want to start over."

The double meaning of his words hung heavy in the air. It perfectly fit the narrative of a suicidal patient seeking a drastic rebirth.

Dr. Albright stared at him for a long moment. She offered a warm, practiced smile, but internally, her clinical alarm bells were ringing. She made a mental note: Abrupt personality shift. Monitor for potential manic episode or other underlying issues. The recovery seems... too clean. Finally, she let out a slow exhale and signed her name at the bottom of his evaluation form.

"This is a massive step, Erich. It's a positive sign. I will tell your mother to support this decision."

"Thank you," Erich said flatly.

The session ended. Erich pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the hallway. A cold sweat had soaked through the back of his t-shirt, sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

Brenda shot up from her chair the second she saw him. She looked past him, her eyes pleading with Dr. Albright for a verdict.

Dr. Albright offered a warm, reassuring smile. "He's experiencing some memory fog, Brenda. But his survival instinct is kicking in. He's making progress."

Brenda covered her mouth with both hands. A choked sob escaped her lips. She looked at Erich like he was a ghost that had finally decided to stay.

Keyla stood up from her corner. She didn't say anything, but the rigid tension in her shoulders visibly melted away.

They walked out into the parking lot. The wind whipped around them.

Brenda unlocked the Chevy, her hands still shaking with relief. She looked at Erich over the roof of the car.

"Do you... do you want to go straight home? Or do you want to stop somewhere?"

Erich stared at the reflection of the trees in the car window. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cold, humorless smirk.

"Book me an appointment at the barbershop," he said.

He was going to kill the old Erich Colon today.