Doctor Tales: Voices of a blade (Part 3)

Henry’s breath caught in his throat, and his legs felt like they could buckle beneath him. His vision blurred for a second, and he could barely comprehend the weight of the words. A police officer... murdered? Was that what had happened? He didn’t remember it. He couldn’t remember it. But the sharp pang of guilt clawed at him. The voice—the other part of him—had done it. And he was the one left behind to bear the consequences. 
He didn’t fight the officer. He knew it was pointless. His hands shook as they slowly lifted, his body betraying him, moving against the will of his mind. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me, but the voice’s presence surged like an echo in his skull. The officer’s firm grip on his shoulder jerked him to face forward. Henry’s heart raced in his chest. He tried to speak, tried to explain, but his voice faltered. 
The officer’s eyes stayed focused on the rearview mirror, but his voice remained calm. "Kid, what happened? You said you didn't mean to, what did you mean?" Henry sat in the back, slumped against the seat, his face pale. He couldn't look at the officer. The cuffs bit into his wrists, a constant reminder that he was trapped in his own body—unable to stop what had happened. The silence in the car stretched, heavy. Henry opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He knew what had happened, but he couldn’t fully explain it. The other person the one who had done it was still so far away in his mind. 
“I... I didn't...” His voice cracked, and he looked down, as if hoping the words would suddenly make sense. “I wasn’t... in control... it wasn’t me, but it was. I couldn’t stop her.” 
The officer glanced over at him, eyes narrowing but not quite filled with judgment. He was used to dealing with suspects, but Henry's fractured state was something else. "Who? Who's 'her,' kid?" Henry’s lips trembled as the voice whispered in his mind. The voice was quiet, but it always felt like it was right there, just beneath the surface. 
“She’s… she’s not me,” Henry murmured, shaking his head. “I… I'm Henry. But sometimes, I... I don’t know.” The officer tightened his grip on the wheel, glancing at Henry once more. “You’re telling me there’s someone else in there?” Henry nodded slowly, feeling the sharp sting of confusion and guilt gnaw at him. “I can’t always... stop her. When she takes over, it’s like I'm... not here. I don’t know what happens.” A deep silence filled the car again, and the officer sighed. He didn’t know what to make of it yet. Dissociative Identity Disorder he'd heard of it, but he'd never had it staring back at him from the back of his patrol car.  
It didn’t take long before they arrived at the station, leading Henry toward an interrogation room. The building was quiet—unnervingly so. Most of the staff had been pulled away due to the murder, leaving only a skeleton crew behind. The usual hum of ringing phones and radio chatter was absent, replaced only by the steady whir of the ventilation system and the echo of footsteps against the scuffed tile floor. 
As they pulled into the lot, Henry had noticed something odd—a distinct lack of police cars. Only a couple remained parked near the entrance, the others likely scattered across town investigating the murder. The station itself was small and practical, built for efficiency rather than comfort. The walls were painted a dull off-white, the kind that had yellowed slightly with age under years of fluorescent lighting. Filing cabinets lined parts of the hallway, their labels worn from use, and a few outdated chairs sat near the front desk for anyone waiting to be processed. 
The building felt almost maze-like, plenty of doors leading to various offices, storage rooms, and holding cells. Each one looked nearly identical, blending into the monotonous interior. They passed a row of empty holding cells before reaching a heavy door. The officer pushed it open, revealing a compact interrogation room, barely ten feet across. The air inside was still and sterile. A single metal table stood in the center, surrounded by three steel chairs, their legs scraping the linoleum floor as they moved. The walls were painted a muted gray, soundproofed to keep conversations inside. A low-hanging fluorescent light flickered faintly, casting a cold, clinical glow over the room. 
The officer gestured toward the far side of the table. “Take a seat over there.” 
Henry hesitated for a brief moment before stepping forward, the cuffs still tight around his wrists. The cold steel pinched against his skin as he lowered himself into the chair. The metal groaned slightly beneath his weight. 
The officer moved with routine precision, shutting the door behind him with a soft but definitive click. He took a seat on the opposite side of the table, pulling out a small notepad and clicking his pen. For a moment, he simply stared at Henry—studying him. 
The overhead light flickered slightly, casting harsh shadows across Henry’s face. The room felt colder than it should. Or maybe it was just in his head. 
The officer finally broke the silence. 
“You said you didn’t mean to. Now’s the time to explain that.” His voice wasn’t unkind, but it held the weight of expectation. 
Henry swallowed hard. His mind was scattered, shifting between fog and clarity. How was he supposed to explain something he barely understood himself? He lowered his gaze to the table, his fingers twitching against the cuffs. 
“It wasn’t me,” he said, barely above a whisper. 
The officer didn’t react at first. He simply tapped his pen against the paper. “Then who was it?” Henry’s throat tightened. He could hear the voice—lingering, waiting. Watching. Would it be a mistake to tell the truth? 
“Okay I'm sorry, I need to get the audio log started.” 
He leans over to an audio recorder and begins speaking.  
Case Number: 2025-0413 
Date: 09/24/2022 
Start Time: 8:42 PM 
Location: Warm Springs Police Department, Interrogation Room #2 
Recording Officer: Officer Daniel Reyes, Badge #2173 
Suspect: Henry Redacted  
Suspect’s DOB: [MM/DD/YYYY] 
Present Officer: Officer Daniel Reyes  
Officer Reyes: "This is Officer Daniel Reyes, badge number 2173, conducting an interview with suspect Henry [Last Name] in relation to case number 2025-0413—the homicide of Officer Lucas Harlow. The date is September 20, 2022, and the time is 8:42 PM. Also present in the room is Detective Mark Holloway. The suspect has been read his Miranda Rights and has acknowledged understanding. Recording is now in progress." 
Officer Reyes: "State your full name for the record." 
Henry: "Henry Redacted" 
Officer Reyes: "Henry, do you understand why you're here?" 
Henry Redacted “Yes officer”  
Officer Reyes “You seem uneasy, what's wrong?” 
Henry Redacted “She... she keeps talking. She wants out, I can't let her out again.” 
Officer Reyes “Who is it, who are you talking about?” 
Henry redacted “Its Linda, she keeps trying to hurt people. I can't let her out, I can't let her kill people again.”  
The officer freezes in place, he wasn’t sure what was going on, he stopped for a moment, not sure what to think of the situation.  
Officer Reyes “I need to go and find someone who can help you, you're not exactly in any condition to do anything. We need to run some tests” 
Officer Reyes: "The time is now 9:17 PM. This concludes the interrogation of Henry [Last Name]. Recording is being terminated." 
The recorder makes a loud click, signaling the end of the audio log. The sound lingers in the silence that follows, the room heavy with an unspoken weight. 
The officer remains seated, staring at the table, processing what he just heard. He’s done plenty of interrogations before—suspects who sobbed, who lied, who sat in stony silence. But this... this was something different. 
Then he notices it. 
Henry hasn’t moved. He’s sitting unnervingly still, a faint smile creeping across his face. Not nervous. Not broken. Smiling. Henry tilts his head slightly, eyes locking onto the officer with something unsettling behind them. His voice is smooth, almost playful. 
"So, officer... what’s the plan? Lock me up and toss the key? Maybe the electric chair, the needle? Or a nice little pill to end it all? No, no, I’ve got it—call me insane and ship me off to an asylum.” Then he laughs. Low at first, bubbling into something manic, something wrong. Suddenly, he jerks against the cuffs, metal scraping against the table as he yanks hard, testing the restraints. “Come on. Let me loose. I’ll show you exactly what I did to that other officer in the streets.” The officer is already on his feet, instinct kicking in. He backs toward the door, hand hovering near his holster. Henry tugs again harder this time, the entire table rattling under the force. “I need assistance in Interrogation Room Two—now!” the officer calls, voice sharp as he reaches for the door handle. 
Henry just grins wider.  
Henry yanked at the cuffs, thrashing harder and harder, his wild movements making the metal restraints clatter against the table. His breathing was ragged, his shoulders heaving as he pulled with all his strength. The officer frowned, shifting his stance. “You’re going to break your damn wrists,” he muttered, watching the cuffs strain against the mounting bolts. That was exactly what Henry wanted. 
The officer was too focused on the chaos, on the risk of the cuffs snapping or the table bolts coming loose. He didn’t see Henry’s fingers slip into his sleeve. Didn’t see the bobby pin slide into his palm. Henry kept up the struggle, his erratic movements covering the small, precise action of shifting the pin into the keyhole. Then, as if exhaustion had finally hit him, his thrashing started to slow. His movements grew sluggish, uncoordinated. His breath evened out, his body swaying slightly. 
The officer let out a breath. “Are you done yet?” Henry ignored him. His fingers twisted the pin. Click. The first cuff loosened. He shifted his wrist, barely moving, barely breathing. Click. The second cuff released. Henry let his hands fall naturally onto the table, keeping his posture the same. He didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just sat there, seemingly defeated. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. Smiling.  
Henry’s smile never faded. The officer took a slow step back. Something felt wrong. 
Then, Henry moved. 
He lunged over the table, his hands slamming onto the surface as he vaulted forward. The officer barely had time to react before Henry crashed into him, knocking them both backward. The room exploded into chaos. The officer grunted as he hit the floor, his back slamming into the wall. Henry was on him instantly, clawing for his holster. 
“Get the hell off me!” the officer barked, twisting his body to keep his gun out of reach. Henry fought like a wild animal, his weight pressing down, fingers gripping at the officer’s vest. The officer drove an elbow into Henry’s ribs, trying to shove him off. Henry barely flinched. Heavy footsteps pounded outside the room. The door slammed open. 
“GET OFF HIM! HANDS UP, NOW!” 
Before Henry could react, strong arms grabbed him from behind. The weight of multiple officers yanked him back, pulling him off the struggling officer. He thrashed, teeth bared in a wild grin. 
Then something shifted. His breath hitched. His body jerked like a puppet with cut strings. 
A sharp, involuntary shudder ran through him. His expression changed in an instant—the wild rage vanished, his eyes flickering with confusion. His body tensed as if something inside him was being ripped away. Then, just as suddenly—everything went still. His muscles gave out. His body went completely limp, collapsing under the officers’ hold. 
“Shit,” one of them muttered. “Did he just pass out?” 
“Get medical in here,” another officer ordered. 
Henry wasn’t there anymore. Whoever had been fighting them—whoever had killed that officer was gone. And the person left behind? Completely unaware of what had just happened.