The surroundings were pitch black, with only a single light shining down on me from above. I didn't know what to do, and my heart was full of fear. I was surrounded by people dressed in doctor and nurse uniforms, but my vision was already blurry, making it difficult to see their faces.  

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, barely catching my breath as I sobbed, terrified of the man holding a gun while gripping a large syringe in his left hand. "PLEASE! LEAVE, PLEASE!"  

This voice.  

This has been my voice since I was a kid. And this scene... I remember it too well. So many memories haunt me, but this memory—when I entered the laboratory—this one terrifies me the most.  

I knew I was having a nightmare, but no matter how hard I tried to wake myself up, I couldn’t. It was too terrifying, and I knew I was stuck in this nightmare. I hate it—I really hate it! Is this the result of everything they did to me? A trauma so deep that it haunts me, only stopping when I’m lying in the realms of heaven? Is this what they wanted?  

"Now, now, calm down," he said calmly, with a haunting sweetness in his tone. But his words did nothing to ease my fear, especially when he pointed the gun at my forehead. My sobbing only grew louder.  

I may not have realized it back then because I was just a kid when I first met him. But I knew he was young then—tall and extremely thin. He wasn’t wearing a mask, but because of the drug they made me drink earlier, it was hard for me to look at him clearly.  

"Just listen to me, and everything will be fine. If you don’t want to go back to my tank of doom, lower your voice, okay?"  

Tears continued to stream down my face. "Don’t… Don’t… I want my daddy... Please let me go!" I begged, but they didn’t care.  

"Shh," he hushed me as he slowly inserted the needle of the syringe into my left arm. The liquid inside looked like a drug.  

Minutes later, my vision worsened. I found it harder to think straight. People in white lab coats marched around me. I could sense their bad intentions rising. They held my hands and legs, pushing my back until my chin touched my knees.  

Because of the drug he injected into me, I lost all strength, and my vision started spinning. It felt like I was about to fall and faint any moment now.  

Suddenly, they stabbed several syringes into my back, and all I could do was scream. I struggled to break free from the restraints, but my hands, feet, and waist were tightly bound to a cold metal chair.  

"ARGHHH!" I screamed as they continued stabbing me with large syringes. I could feel each needle and the drug coursing through my body, yet they didn’t remove them; the syringes remained embedded in my back.  

I was growing weak from crying and sweating endlessly as I felt strange changes happening in my body. My vision distorted, turning into a swirl of colors. The pain was indescribable. My body twitched uncontrollably, as if I was losing myself.  

I lamented, over and over again.  

Until my vision was gone.  

I woke up, breathing heavily. I quickly sat up from the small chair beside my father’s hospital bed and reached for the plastic bottle of water on the table. I drank it quickly, trying to calm my nerves as I pushed the nightmare away.  

I was in the hospital, taking care of my father, waiting for him to wake up from his coma. I tried to forget the dream, but how can I escape something that has already left a permanent mark on my memory? Something that haunts me even when I don’t want to recall it.  

Just forget it.  

Forget it and move on, Rosalinda. Your past won’t help your future. You just have to help your current self live for the future. Stop dwelling on it. But these words... they make me a hypocrite. I’m in denial that I’m not living in the past because I know that I am.  

I closed my eyes for a moment, then shifted my gaze to my father lying peacefully on the hospital bed. He was still in a coma. The doctors had long said that my father’s case was unusual—his coma had lasted far longer than expected.  

I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. The reason why my father is in this position? He overdosed on sedatives—sleeping pills he’d been taking for years. It was only now that everything he had taken took effect. The amount he consumed was so high, his body couldn’t handle it, and now he’s lying in a hospital bed, trapped in his own unconsciousness.  

I’ve been sitting by his side, trying to understand why he resorted to those pills. What drove him to it? The answers keep slipping away.  

The door opened suddenly, and my mom walked in, dressed to the nines in the little black dress Dad had given her. Rage boiled inside me. I knew she had just come back from seeing another man. She tried to play nice, asking about Dad, but I said nothing. I couldn’t even look at her. Her mere presence stoked my anger.  

“Why are you so cold toward me?” she asked, sounding concerned, resting her head on my shoulder. “Is something bothering you, Rose? Tell me.”  

"Where did you go?" I asked coldly. She froze, clearly not expecting the question. I could see the lies in her eyes. "I’m tired. I’m heading home. Take care of him and don’t leave his side again. You’re always away—spend some time with your husband," I said in irritation, rising from my chair and heading for the door.

“Wait, Rose!” I didn’t listen to her and just kept walking away. I don’t want to stay there with her—seeing her face makes me want to puke.