Episode 4: A Mind That Won’t Stay Silent

The pungent smell of floor wax. The cold slam of locker room doors. A chorus of teenage cackles—cruelty masked as confidence and insecurity hidden behind sharp laughter.

Eat or be eaten. That’s all high school really was.

Funny how a single trigger can rip open the past, so vivid it feels like stepping through time.

And there he is—standing. Greasy hair clinging to his forehead, stiff, tucked white shirt, and those haunting green eyes staring into the distance.

But this time, I see something I never noticed before.

Not fear. Not desperation.

Resignation.

The harsh buzz of the light bulb jolts me back. The remnants of my outburst still hang in the air, crackling in the silence.

“You done?” His voice finally breaks through—low, steady. No smugness, no mockery. Just quiet certainty.

His fingers tap against the armrest. A small, rhythmic sound. A drip of water in a dark cave.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Guilt is a parasite,” Monroe says, his tone almost casual. “People expect it to crash in, violent and deafening. They think once the storm settles, it’s gone.” His voice softens, but it isn’t gentle. “But it doesn’t. It waits. Until you’re alone.”

“And then—it devours you.”

“You think I feel guilty?” I force a laugh, but it comes out wrong. Hollow. Almost rehearsed.

Monroe doesn’t flinch. “I think you feel something, and whether you admit it or not—it’s consuming you..bit by bit”

He was right. The bitter stench of confusion, guilt, and desperation clinging to my skin was undeniable.

His voice lowers, almost… pitying. “You’re afraid to remember, aren’t you?”

“Afraid of what? A few old memories?” I ask defiantly.

Monroe leans in—not a threat, just a shift. A reminder of control. “Strange things... memories,” he says. “They never really change. Only the way we see them does.”

Elijah’s eyes are still burning at the back of my mind. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m remembering something wrong. Or worse—that I’m remembering it exactly the way it happened.

Monroe watches me carefully. Then, after a long pause, he exhales.

“People love to believe they were just bystanders,” he murmurs. “That watching in silence is somehow different from pushing someone off the edge.”

My fingers curl against my palms, pressing into my skin as if pain could ground me.

It doesn’t.

After a short pause Monroe places a folder on the table between us. He gently opens it as though he’s been waiting to show it to me all along.

“I spoke to someone,” he says. He slides a single sheet forward. In blood-red ink, WITNESS STATEMENT is scrawled across the page.

I don’t move. I don’t reach for it, but Monroe doesn’t seem to care. He starts reading.

"I saw it happen. I remember everything."

“It was every day.”

A slow, sickening pull twists inside me, like my body already knows what my mind refuses to acknowledge. The words feel like needles threading through my thoughts, tugging at the frayed edges of something I can’t hold together.

"They laughed at him. I remember how he stopped fighting back."

“These are nothing more than dramatic narrations,” I hiss, but my voice betrays me. The crack is there, just beneath the surface.

Monroe slides another sheet of paper toward me. The same red ink. Another witness statement.

"But that day was different.”

A rush of static floods my head. He reads the next line slowly, deliberately, as if he wants me to feel every word.

"That day, I remember the way he looked at them. He tried to leave, but they wouldn’t let him."

My vision narrows. My pulse slams against my throat.

Monroe’s eyes flicker to mine. “Both of the statements name you,” he says.

I look down, trying to read, but the words blur—shifting, rearranging themselves into something I can’t quite grasp.

I remember that day. But only in pieces. A hallway. Laughter. The scent of old books and antiseptic.

Elijah, standing still, hands gripping the straps of his backpack like a lifeline.

My voice.

I blink rapidly. No. That’s not right. I wasn’t—I wasn’t one of them.

A cold shudder crawls up my spine.

The way his shoulders folded inward. The way his lips

parted slightly—like he wanted to speak but already knew

it wouldn’t matter.

The way he looked at me. The unspoken plea in his gaze.

Will you stop this?

And in that moment, the truth sinks in.

I was part of it. Not with my fists or my words.

But with my silence. With the way I turned my back.

Elijah was right. We never truly remembered him. Never saw him for who he was. Erased his pain ever so conveniently. And now, as it all resurfaces...

It’s far too late.