5/12/2016 12:22 AM Downtown Brooklyn, New York.

My feet slam against the saturated, marsh-like ground that leads downwards, underneath a low-lying bridge. My boots made an audible squealing noise as muddy water occasionally splashes up against my blood splattered, worn out navy blue jeans. Whose blood exactly? I'm not too sure, my mind is hazy, my memories a mangled mess. Though that doesn't really matter at the moment, I have to get out of the open. Even though the gleam of their flashlights disappeared in the bush awhile back, I can't take any chances, they've always had a grudge against me, won't give up. Regardless of the fact that I always manage to escape their cars or holding cells.

I take deep, shallow breaths now. My face feeling flushed and no doubt bright red from the marathon I've just run. I take a sharp turn to the right, sliding down a muddy slope and run under the bridge. Home sweet home. To be exact, it has been my home for a few months now or maybe just one, I don't know. I can't remember too well. Arduously, I stumble from side to side as I walk towards the warm and inviting fire pit in the middle of the area. Right at that moment, what was originally a light spit, starts bucketing down, sounding a melodic: Pitter. Pat. Pitter. Pat. The rain droplets splash against the overlaid tin roof pieces I set up for myself to offer me more room. With a exasperated sigh, I plop myself down on a log beside the fire and disorientedly rip off my bloody and mud caked boots, discarding of them on the floor and I take a look around.

My little safe haven isn't exactly spacious but it is homey in my opinion. The cackling fire heats my core and emits a nice 'sunset orange' colour across the walls, coated with old graffiti. There's a washing line hanging off nails from one end of the area to the other, a thin, slightly deflated looking white mattress in one corner accompanied with a wooden draw and a small mirror with some nice lost and found nick-nacks of mine and a work bench against the opposite wall. Just as I begin to feel at ease, the annoying and booming cawing of a crow echoes under the bridge, causing me to almost jump out of my skin.

Right by my side, not too far away, stands a medium-sized bird, with large wings, a small frame and midnight black holes for eyes. The crow ruffles its feathers, enjoying the heat from the fire; however, my head is giving me a hard enough time already with this sharp, painful migraine I can't seem to shake off. I really don't need a noisy bird hanging around. Angrily, I swat at it a few times, but all it does is tilt its tiny head and stare into my soul with its jet black, beady eyes. "Scram!" I hiss at the bird and eventually, it obeys.

I draw my attention back to the fire, allow myself to relax and bring my hands out in front of me to soak up the warmth through my hole-scattered, blue gloves. My eyelids begin to droop, the fire hypnotizing. Blissfully, I take another glance around the room. And that's when I spot something I'm not supposed to.

"Evelyn?" I question the girl.

Though, I don't know why I even bother asking. The little girl, seems around six years of age. With wavy blonde locks and ice blue eyes, wearing a cute ruffled, stained white t-shirt, blue shorts, and pink and white polka dot flats. Indeed, it's my little sister. She sits and stares knowingly and lovingly with doll like eyes, flashing me a small smile. She seems genuinely happy, except blood seeps through her abdomen, staining her shirt and in a place I'd rather not mention. A cut grazes her forehead, marks and bruises cover her knees and arms. As well as rope burns across her tiny wrists. Unfortunately, her visit this time only lasts one or two minutes and just as quickly as she had arrived, she's gone within a blink of an eye.

I wish with all of my heart, every time she comes to me, that she would stay for longer. However, Doctor Shaffer would always disagree. In fact, ever since I was under her care one and a half years ago, Evelyn's visits seem to have become shorter.

***

18/6/2015 8:30 AM Upper Manhattan, New York.

The mahogany wood door, slowly creaked open and I push my hand against it to quicken the process. My eyes immediately dart around the room, except this time, I allow myself to stop and take everything in. In our first 'session', I have to admit, I was a bit frantic, in a frenzied state of mind. Sun rays pour through a half-opened window looking out at the classic, multiple story red brick buildings of Upper Manhattan. The light hits a matching mahogany desk that's covered with framed photographs, documents, a steaming cup of strong-smelling coffee and children's drawings of fractured families and dream houses. The room had been made to feel as unthreatening as possible with 'feel-good' posters. Some more childish than others. One in particular, which shows a kitten grasping with their paws on a clothesline with the words 'Hang In There Kitty' causes me to raise my eyebrows. Other than that, everything seems organised, symmetrical and polished.

"Hello, Joshua. Remember me? Please, please, take a seat," a calm and collected woman's voice summons me from my thoughts and back into reality. In her voice, there is a clear as day New York City accent.

Clearing my throat, I nod and make my way to a plump brown armchair, that feels soft and tingly against my skin, placed in front of a coffee table. Doctor Shaffer, a slim, bronze-skinned woman with jet-black hair done up into a side plait, sits herself down on an identical chair. She seems to be of half Mexican heritage, like myself.

"So in our very first and might I say," the woman clicks her tongue and lets out an exasperated sigh, glancing at her clipboard, "unproductive lesson, you claimed that the world and everyone in it is evil. You seem to have a lot of pent-up anger understandably, but what about good, Josh? Do you believe there are good people in this world?

There's a brief moment of silence, "No." I state confidently, tapping my fingers one by one against the arms of the armchair.

Joanna, at least that is what I presume her first name is, places one of her legs on top the other to form a table and brings her pen to her clipboard, her eyes unmoving from the paper as she nods. "Why not?" she asks, twirling her pen.

I don't waste a second before answering. "Because deep down, everyone is manipulative, lying and selfish. With their own ominous intentions, always looking out for themselves. I bet those Aldira brothers," I say their name with a sneer, "looked Evelyn right in the eyes, acted nice and handed her a balloon just like she wanted before whisking her away to..to." I stutter, struggling to find the words I search for. They're on the tip of my tongue but I can't bring myself to say them aloud. Doctor Shaffer gingerly places a warm hand against my knee for a few seconds and I settle for giving up and continuing the story, suddenly filled with anger. "And... everyone else, they didn't question anything, didn't try to stop what happened." I finish and Joanna starts scribbling.

"And what about me?" she lifts her gaze up, making eye contact with me. Her light hazel eyes just shimmer with knowledge and intelligence but also a particular decisiveness I've seen in so many other therapist's eyes. They all know what to say, how to say it and when to convert you to how they think.

I evaluate her question, staring at her through squinted eyes before finally saying, "No." Short and simple. To no surprise, she continues scribbling again.

"And why is that?"

"Because, woman!" I spit, outraged, digging my fingertips in the armchair. "Because you wretched people keep me in here, tell me I'm nuts and I need help when they're still out there! With how spectacularly the police force failed me, I may as well do the cops job for them but no, you keep me drugged up in this peanut gallery!" I shout, gesturing around me and pointing to a photograph of the mental hospital that Doctor Shaffer commonly gets her more...stable, reachable patients from, such as myself. "I bet you're all corrupt, covering their tracks for them. Makes sense-"

I open my mouth to go on, though I notice Doctor Shaffer throwing her hands out in front of her, fingers spread, moving them down. As if gesturing me to keep my voice down, return myself to a peaceful manner. Realising the concerned expression on her face, I do so.

"Joshua, please, no need to shout. We have to keep things civil remember. We truly are trying to help, but in order for you to begin getting better, you need to understand that the Aldira brothers? They're dead. They were discovered deceased in a burning car wreck after a fatal collision during a high-speed police car chase. They've been deceased for years." Joanna takes a few moments for me to collect my thoughts and for the tension in the room to die down. "Do you know why you're here?" she asks me.

But I don't answer.

"You're in here Mr Diaz, because you're not only a danger to the public but to yourself-" the woman blabbers on and on but I do not have the patience to listen to her anymore. I shake my head, furrow my eyebrows and stare off into nothing in particular. Letting myself zone out, blocking her words.

***

No, no I'm not. If anything, the police force are a danger to the public, they failed to find and locate the Aldira brothers despite my various accounts of pleading them to do so. With solid evidence as well! But they refuse to believe me. Those two remnants of my past, haunt me, stalking me everywhere I go. I know they are alive and well. I do. They skip from town to town. Their clothes always change, the car, hair, facial features but their eyes always remain the same, and one brother, I recall him always having a long horizontal scar on the left side of his forehead. I can always tell it is them. They follow me, make sure I'm always perceived as mentally ill, sabotaging my efforts to find them.

All I know is, if I don't get to them first, it's only a matter of time before they reach me and I can't allow that. Not when I have a job to do. I will find those bastards.

And I will make them pay.