UNSPOKEN CONFESSIONS

Amelia

As I sat alone in my house, the silence wrapped around me, heavy and suffocating. Today had been… surreal . I had stood in that courtroom, looking at him from across the room, and though every inch of me wanted to turn away, I couldn’t. His eyes had stayed locked on me, unwavering and intense, as if I was the only person in that packed room, the only one that mattered .

When I testified, I kept my voice steady, gave the answers they needed. I recounted the events with careful precision, sticking to the details from the video. The murder. Just the murder. I showed them only what they needed to see, the evidence that would lock him away, at least for now.

But I hadn’t shown them everything .

The secrets I carried, the horrors he’d inflicted on me beyond what that one moment in the video could capture… those were buried. Hidden under the weight of memories that I didn’t dare expose to strangers. Maybe it was fear that held me back, a fear of what they’d think , what they’d see in me if they knew everything. Or maybe… maybe a part of me couldn’t let go of the twisted bond we shared, a bond that even now, after everything, still had a grip on my mind.

I exhaled, hands trembling as I traced my fingers over my wrist, remembering the bruises that had faded but never left me. No, I hadn’t told them everything, hadn’t given them the whole truth. And he knew that. In the way he looked at me, there was no accusation, no anger—only that maddening certainty . Like he knew I hadn’t truly betrayed him, not fully.

And that realization was almost as terrifying as everything else.

They had sent him to a psychiatric facility instead of a prison. His lawyer, ever calculating and tenacious, had dug up records, evaluations, documents that painted Damien as someone who was mentally unstable, teetering on the edge of madness. They argued that he needed treatment, not confinement. And then the judge looked at me, as if I held some key to understanding him, to justifying this fate.

The judge’s request echoed in my mind: ‘As his therapist, could you explain Mr. Blackwell’s mental state?’ It was a question that, in any other case, I could have answered with clinical detachment. But with Damien ? It was different. I’d been pulled into his world, forced to dance to the twisted rhythm he set. And somehow, through that chaos, I’d glimpsed something raw , something I couldn’t quite define.

I remembered how I spoke in that courtroom, how the words left my mouth in a controlled, steady tone that I barely recognized as my own. ‘Mr. Blackwell’s actions… are complex. He exhibits signs of severe trauma, likely from his early childhood, though he remains guarded about the specifics. His behavior suggests deep-rooted psychological disturbances that have influenced his actions. He’s… disturbed, your Honor. And in many ways, he’s a man trapped within his own darkness. I believe he could benefit from intensive psychiatric treatment.’

I had chosen my words carefully, yet every syllable felt heavy, as if each one was a thread tying me further to him. Perhaps it was fear, or perhaps something I couldn’t understand, but those words tipped the scales. The judge had nodded slowly, weighing my statement with the cold finality of authority, and with one stroke of his gavel, Damien’s fate was sealed—not to a cell, but to the sterile halls of a psychiatric facility.

And I… I was left with an ache that went beyond my own understanding, a mixture of guilt and regret , something sharp and hollow lodged in my chest. Damien was my patient. My responsibility. Somewhere along the way, he’d become more than just another name in my files. He was a complex, broken man I thought I could help, someone who carried a rage and pain that I recognized , even if I couldn’t admit it.

But I’d failed him.

I was supposed to be his therapist, the one to break through that darkness, to guide him toward something— anything —that resembled healing. Yet here I was, empty-handed and haunted. He was the first patient I couldn’t save, the first case where I felt my own sense of control slip away.

And the worst part? There were moments, flashes in our sessions and that terrible night, when I saw a flicker of something real in his eyes. A brief glimmer of vulnerability, a humanity he tried so hard to hide beneath layers of cruelty and indifference. It was fleeting, buried under the weight of his own twisted desires, but it was there. And it left me wondering, questioning every word, every choice I made in that courtroom.

Was it weakness ? Compassion ? Or was it simply my own na?veté, my belief that I could reach him, that I could tame the beast within him? I’d seen countless patients over the years, individuals grappling with trauma, with pain. I was trained to handle it, to guide them toward healing, but Damien… Damien was different . He wasn’t just troubled; he was a storm, raging and wild, a force that could not be restrained. And I had foolishly thought I could withstand it.

I closed my eyes, remembering his face, the intensity in his gaze that seemed to pierce through every wall I’d built around myself. He looked at me like he could see every fracture, every flaw. And in those eyes, I saw something I still couldn’t name. Was it a plea for help? A challenge? Or something darker, an acknowledgment that he’d bound me to him in ways I couldn’t escape ?

But nothing, nothing , haunted me like Jake’s mother—her voice breaking, her eyes hollow with grief.

‘How could you?’ she whispered, though her words felt like a scream. ‘How could you do that to him? To Jake ? He trusted you, loved you, and you—‘ her breath hitched—‘you stood there and defended the man who murdered my son !’

I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that it wasn’t what it looked like, but the truth clung to me like chains. This was all my fault . Her sobs filled the silence, a sound that tore through me, deeper than guilt, deeper than shame.

‘You chose him ,’ she said finally, her voice breaking apart, ‘over Jake. Over us .’

People would call Damien a monster, a sociopath, and perhaps they were right. But beneath that mask, there was something more—a brokenness , a shadowed soul calling out, even as he pushed everyone away. And I… I’d fallen into that darkness, convinced I could pull him back .

But now, he was beyond my reach, trapped in a world of padded rooms and iron bars. And the knowledge that I was the reason he ended up there.

I thought I would feel relief, that maybe this was closure, a way to sever the twisted bond he’d forced upon me. But instead, I felt an emptiness , a gnawing sense of failure that wouldn’t let go.

The silence in my apartment grew heavy, suffocating . No matter how many deep breaths I took, I couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on me, as though they had followed me out of that courtroom, through the doors, and into my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them—those cold, piercing eyes, watching me with a mixture of contempt and something else… something closer to recognition .

It was as if, in his own twisted way, Damien had seen through me, stripped away the professionalism, the composed exterior I clung to, and reached into a part of me I kept hidden even from myself. And what disturbed me most was the possibility that he understood me better than I understood him .

I should feel victorious, shouldn’t I? I’d escaped, finally . I’d severed the connection that he had bound so tightly around us both. He was gone now, locked away, his darkness contained behind the high walls of an institution. But instead of victory, there was this cold, hollow ache in the pit of my stomach.

That final look in his eyes—how it lingered . There was no rage, no fury. Only certainty. He looked at me like he understood that a part of me had protected him even as I condemned him. And the worst part? He was right .

I could have exposed everything. I could have told the judge, the officers, the lawyers what he had done to me, the terror and cruelty , the bruises he’d left, the nights that haunted me still. But instead, I only showed them the bare minimum, the evidence that proved him a killer, a man capable of taking another life with calculated precision. Nothing more. I hadn’t revealed the rest of it—the twisted things he’d done, the way he’d infiltrated my mind, consumed my dreams, drawn me into a labyrinth of fear and fascination.

Why hadn’t I told them? It was a question I couldn’t answer, no matter how hard I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was self-preservation, the desire to keep the darkest parts of this ordeal locked away, hidden even from myself. Or maybe… maybe there was a part of me that couldn’t bear the thought of truly condemning him.

Damien Blackwell was a murderer, a man marked by violence and cruelty. But I’d seen the shadowed edges of his humanity, brief, fleeting, but undeniable. In those rare moments, I felt like I’d glimpsed something raw, something vulnerable. And in the twisted depths of my mind, I found myself clinging to that, as if it offered some explanation for the chaos he’d unleashed in my life.

In the courtroom, he’d looked at me as though the whole trial was just another game. There was no fear in his eyes, no regret, only that maddening certainty . And the twisted truth was that part of me believed him. I felt as though, even locked away, he still had his grip on me, invisible but unbreakable, a tie that wouldn’t sever no matter how hard I pulled.

I’d convinced everyone in that courtroom of his madness, his need for treatment over punishment. But now, alone with the remnants of my thoughts, I wondered if I was the one who needed help. Because the flicker of humanity I’d seen in him—that rare, fleeting softness—it haunted me. It made me question everything, made me wonder if he was really beyond saving, or if, somewhere beneath all the cruelty, there was something… real .

And what disturbed me most wasn’t the thought of him locked away in that sterile facility, far from me. It was the quiet, insidious fear that he was right. That in some twisted, dark part of my soul, he’d marked me in a way I could never erase.