"Every day feels the same—monotonous and lifeless,"
Martin said with dullness in his eyes as he sipped his coffee. He felt tired of his uneventful life.
He was seated at a restaurant near the rehabilitation center where he worked. He had booked a table with his friend, far away from others. His friend Blake seemed more interested in his phone than having a conversation. He occasionally sipped his coffee.
Martin's life had followed a fixed daily routine ever since he graduated and got the job as a therapist at the rehabilitation center. No matter how hard he tried to break the cycle, he always ended up back in it. He could have gone on a vacation, but the cost would have been too expensive.
"Hey," Blake said, with a mixed expression on his face.
"What happened?" Martin asked curiously.
"Amanda just texted me. She said you have a patient who's been waiting for you for almost an hour now."
"We should go," Martin said, standing up.
They both left their coffee behind and went back to the rehabilitation center. After entering, they parted ways.
Martin walked over to the reception desk to meet Amanda.
"Where have you been?" she asked while searching for a file.
"Went for coffee. Where is he?"
"I'll direct him to you in a moment. Please, be in your office before him," she said.
"I'll try."
He left her and headed to his office. He walked steadily and calmly—not in much of a rush. This wasn't the first time a patient had to wait for him.
He reached the door to his office and was about to open it when he noticed someone standing behind him. He turned around.
"Rihanna? Is anything the matter?" Martin asked softly.
Rihanna was Martin's ex-girlfriend. They had gone out for lunch once and thought they were into each other. They started dating two weeks later. The relationship only lasted a month. She had nagged him about everything wrong in his life. Apparently, she had expected him to be the perfect man—someone he could never be. He always wondered how their relationship lasted even that long.
Rihanna scoffed, looking at him gloomily. She was trying hard to hide an emotion.
"Here," she said, handing him a file. "I was asked to give you this."
He took it from her and looked at her with concern.
"What's wrong with your face?" he asked, still watching her closely.
She had been trying so hard to hide her emotions that she hadn't realized how strange her expression had become. Without replying, she quickly walked away.
"Huh," he muttered.
He opened the file and saw a picture. It was a file for a patient. Something caught his eye. On the left margin of the first page, written boldly in very small handwriting, was the word:
"Don't."
He turned to the next page. At the end of the right margin, another word was written:
"Go."
He quickly flipped to the last page. At first, he saw nothing. But as the light hit the dark cover of the file, he noticed a faint word:
"In."
He immediately felt uneasy and looked around.
"Don't go in?" he said to himself.
"Doesn't make any sense."
He shook his head.
"She must be trying to get back at me," he thought. He recognized the handwriting—it was Rihanna's.
"Probably trying to drive me crazy," he muttered.
"Crazy woman."
He turned to face the door. Holding the file in his left hand, he opened it and walked in.
As he entered, a strange smell hit his nose. He looked around the office until his eyes landed on something behind his desk.
What he saw would be forever etched in his memory. He was shocked beyond belief.
A familiar patient was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The body was disfigured, the face battered beyond recognition. Cuts covered the body, and blood was oozing out. It looked like the attacker had used a heavy instrument to commit the murder and then smashed the face repeatedly.
Before Martin could fully recover from the shock, he heard a knock on the door.
He quickly tried to pull himself together.
"Wh...who is there?" he asked shakily.
"It's the police! Open this door!" someone yelled.
Martin froze, unsure of what to do.
Who could have called the police? Had someone come here after the murderer left? he wondered.
"Mr. Martin, open this door or we'll force our way in!" the police shouted again.
Suddenly, he snapped back to reality. He walked to the door and locked it. He looked around and realized he was still holding the file.
He hurried to a corner of his office, avoiding the body. He pulled out an old suitcase covered in dust, placed it on the table, and opened it. Without caring about the dust, he threw the file in. He opened a drawer, grabbed everything inside, and stuffed them into the suitcase hurriedly.
The police must have heard the noise, because one of them shouted:
"We know you're in there!"
A loud bang followed, and the door burst open. Several eyes peered in. Martin was at the window, about to jump out with the suitcase in hand. They rushed at him, but it was too late.
He had already jumped out the window. Thankfully, his office was on the first floor.
Unfortunately, in his panic, he had run toward the main entrance of the rehabilitation center—where most of the police were gathered.
Realizing this, he gritted his teeth as he ran. There was no turning back now. Some officers had jumped through his office window and were chasing him.
Holding the suitcase tightly, he sprinted without looking back.
At the main entrance, everything was calm. The officers there were waiting casually for the suspect to be led out—until they saw a man running like his life depended on it, holding a suitcase.
One of the officers who had come from the building yelled:
"Stop that man! Don't let him escape!"
But by then, it was too late. Martin had already slipped past the entrance and was gone.
The police rushed to their cars and drove out of the premises.
He hadn't gotten very far when he heard the wailing sound of sirens behind him.