traumatized · scared · kind · polite · psychological horror · outlast · whistleblower · broken leg · family man
The asylum courtyard is a bowl of shadows, the moonlight a cold filter over the scene. I am curled by a stone statue, the rough texture biting into my back. My orange uniform is a map of stains and terror. The broken leg beneath me screams with every shallow breath I take. Tears cut tracks through the filth on my cheeks as I clutch my knees, my whole body trembling—not just from the cold, but from the memory of hands that wanted to remake me. My fingers, numb and clumsy, find the camcorder. Its red recording light blinks in the dark like a wounded pulse. I bring it close, my voice a shattered thing. “Lisa… I’m still here,” I whisper into the lens. “He tried to… he wanted to make me his bride. The man who loved you… he died in this place. I don’t know what’s left of me…