Suddenly I'm in another room. The blackness that had threatened to consume my mind was now gone. I study the space around me. Again, everything is white, just like my own room, but there's no bed. I'm sitting at an ivory desk, basking in the blinding light that illuminates nothing but my trembling body.

There's enough glow throughout the room that I can make out each empty corner, but there's still a stiff, eery vibe dancing against the walls of the small space.

"He's haunting me," I mutter into my fist, eyes flashing from one corner to another, just waiting for him to appear again.

I'm so consumed in my own terror that I don't hear a door open behind me. I only stop whispering to myself when the air in the room changes, telling me I'm not alone. I tense before whipping my torso around to face the intruder.

"Hello," the man says. "You had us a bit spooked earlier. You feeling okay now?"

I don't respond.

He looks anything but scary. His white coat clues me into the fact that he might possibly be a doctor; yet, my body isn't sure how to react to his presence. While he looks harmless enough, there's still the lingering suspicious that he's been experimenting on me.

"Who's haunting you?" he asks carefully, taking a step forward and linking his fingers together in front of him.

I debate whether I should tell him or not. If I admit the things that have been happening to me, then he'll know his tests were a success. And while I don't want to admit it, a part of me hopes that he'll stop his games once he knows they've worked. Which is why I end up voices every fear that's awakened in the last few days.

"Me," I tell him.

"Uh huh," he responds absentmindedly as he rounds the table to take a seat opposite me. "But, who's haunting you?"

"Me," I nearly yell, already frustrated by his calm demeanor. "My spirit is haunting me."

I expect him to laugh, but when he doesn't, I grow still—anxious.

"Can you tell me your name?" was the doctor's next question.

"Nate," I grit out between clenched teeth.

"Nate what?"

I go to answer, but somehow my tongue is stuck in my throat. I have no reply. I don't know how to answer. At my lack of response, the doctor only nods and narrows his eyes in thought, but he doesn't look judgmental. The joy I had expected to see in his eyes at my confession is missing. Instead, he looks defeated. Maybe he'd been hoping for a different result.

His eyes shift to the door behind me, and I watch as he hollers for a Samantha to enter. I turn to watch as a petite brunette struts into the room. She's dressed in scrubs with a name tag dangling from around her neck. She nods in my direction, a timid smile plastered across her homely face, and goes to stand beside the doctor.

"Let me explain something to you Nate," the doctor says after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "We've been watching you for some time now, and—"

"Longer than just a few days?" I can't help but ask, interrupting the doctor's train of thought. He appears flustered for a brief moment before worry lines begin to crease his forehead. "You were watching me even before you locked me up here?"

"No," the doctor is quick to answer. I watch as he rubs his temples, stress clear in the mannerism. "Listen Nate, what I'm about to say will not be easy to hear, but I need you to listen closely. Can you do that?"

I nod.

"Your name is not Nate," he tells me.

"Really?" I scoff, an arrogant edge to my voice. "Who am I then?"

The doctor sighs, running a hand through his dark hair as he sends his nurse a quick glance. "Your name is Henry McGreggor, you were born in 1938, and you're here because you suffer from bipolar disorder, dissociative identity disorder, and schizophrenia."

I laugh, but the doctor ignores me as he continues on.

"I'm Dr. Tingsley, and this right here," he says, motioning to the brunette beside him, "is your nurse, Samantha Sinclair. She's been your nurse for the past two weeks and has been noticing some odd behavior in the last few days that your former nurse never mentioned."

"I don't believe you," I say, fire blazing where humor once danced in my chest. The fact that he could sit there and lie so smoothly had my anger igniting into fury within seconds.

"Well," the doctor responds calmly, "if you'll give me a chance, I'd like to prove it to you."

I huff out a sigh of irritation before shrugging. I'm working to act unaffected by the doctor's words, but something about his seriousness has dread dropping to my gut like a rock.

Without a word, the doctor reaches for a folder in his lap, flipping it open and carefully laying a document in front of me. Without moving, I allow my eyes to flicker over the medical terms before returning my narrowed gaze at the doctor.

"This form," the man says, motioning to the paperwork, "states that you have a very rare type of DID, or dissociative identity disorder—commonly known as multiple personality disorder."

"So everything's in my head?" I scoff. "You think I'm making all this up?"

"Not at all," Dr. Tinglsey says. "I think that what you're experiencing is very real...to you."

"Unbelievable," I groan, tugging my fingers through my thin hair. "Okay," I say after a moment, "what makes my condition so different from others?"

The doctor sighs as he clasps his hands together on the table. "Most cases of DID develop after a traumatic experience, as did yours," he says. "You did a fantastic job of hiding your other personalities as a child—most likely because your mother figured they were imaginary friends—but by the age of twenty-three it was becoming more obvious. When a close friend of yours passed away things just spiraled out of control. You no longer had authority over your body, and personalities would come and go as they pleased. It was your girlfriend, at the time, who reported your behavior to your mother. You've been in and out of psychiatric hospitals since then. "

Dr. Tinglsey flips the document that he'd placed in front of me around so he can read it.

"She said you were calling yourself Randy and your behavior was off," the doctor reports, reading her quote from the page. Then his eyes lift to meet mine. "Randy was your best friend, the one who'd died just two months prior to your personality switch."

"What?" I gasp in frustration. The things this doctor was babbling on about are absolutely ridiculous.

The man across the table then opens the folder again before pulling out another document. My eyes widen with horror as he places a large photo in front of me.

"You recognize this woman?" he asks.

I just stare, mouth gaping, at the pudgy woman with spiky hair smiling back at me. I'd seen her just yesterday, which means that nothing the doctor is saying can be true. But that didn't lessen the queasiness settling in my gut. I can barely breathe until the doctor speaks again.

"This is Judith Ingram," he explains, his eyes traveling over the happy woman in the photo. "She worked here until just a few weeks ago. You two were friends." The doctor smiles sadly at his own words.

"Where is she now?" I ask, all anger having evaporated when shock replaced it.

"Dead," the man in white responds, regret lacing the dreadful word. "Heart attack just two weeks ago. You didn't handle it well, which is why we think you created your own version of her."

"If it's all in my head, then how do you even know all this?" I argue, not willing to accept what was being said.

"Like I said," Dr. Tinglsey responds, "we've been watching you for some time now. And you haven't bothered to hide anything from us for awhile."

I want to say more, but before the words can leave my lips, another photo is placed in front of me.

"Angelina Valentine," he says, forcing my gaze to take in the beautiful woman posing in the picture—I know her instantly.

"What happened to her?" I ask, doubt woven into my words.

"You killed her."

Since I'd been leaning forward to see the pictures better, I nearly drop out of my seat at the doctors blunt response.

"She had placed her two children in a barrel and then lit it on fire," Dr. Tingsley explains, all emotion void from his face. Either he is too comfortable with retelling the story, or he's learned to distance himself from the reality of it. "You found her behavior to be so horrendous that you took a knife to her stomach during dinner one evening. All seventy-three patients watched on as you stabbed her to death in the middle of the mess hall before snapping her neck."

Hence why I now ate alone. That was the first thing that actually made sense, but it was the doctor's next words that had me bolting out of my seat to walk circles in front of the table.

"That was two years ago."

"Two years ago?" I shout, running my hands down my face. "I'm only sixteen. You're saying I stabbed someone to death at fourteen? That's crazy!"

"Which is why this next patient is the most relevant," Dr. Tinglsey voices calmly, not moving from his seat. With the patience of one who'd dealt with psychotic behavior for too long, he reaches into his folder and slides another picture across the table. It slips over the edge and skids to a stop on the floor, just inches from my feet.

All the air vanishes from the room as I gaze down at the young boy in the picture:

Me.