Do you still remember that day, or does it come like a blur?" the doctor asked softly, watching the faraway look in Andre's eyes.
Andre's voice trembled. "Yes… sometimes it feels like it just happened yesterday."
Twenty years ago — Andre's remembrance
"Your sister is crazy! She needs to be taken to a shaman for an exorcism right now!" Mum's voice cracked, thick with fear as she threw Gwen's clothes into a bag.
"What do you mean by crazy?" asked twenty-year-old Andre, his voice caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
"Can't you see the signs?" Mum's hands trembled as she packed. "Remember Mrs. Wo's daughter? She had the same problem. They took her to the shaman, and she got better. We can't waste time — before your sister does more harm to herself."
Andre hesitated. "Okay… sure. But wait — let me help you."
The shaman's house smelled of smoke and something older — something that didn't belong to the living.
They performed rituals all day: murmured incantations, the flash of knives, the rhythmic thud of drums echoing like heartbeats.
All I remember were Gwen's screams.
Each cry cut through me — her voice pleading, "Andre! Help me… help me!"
Mum kept saying it was part of the ritual, that she'd be fine.
So I sat there, waiting… watching… hoping.
If only I had known what was coming next, I would have stopped it all.
When evening fell, they brought her out. The shaman said she was healed — that we could take her home. She looked pale but calm, her eyes distant, her silence heavy.
At home, I tried speaking to her, but she didn't respond. I thought she was just tired.
Even when I tried to feed her, she only stared through me, as if I wasn't there.
That night, I heard soft moaning from her room. I wanted to go in, but Mum stopped me.
"It's part of the process," she said.
But something inside me whispered that it wasn't.
At dawn, I went to her room anyway.
"Gwen," I called.
No answer.
"Gwen?" I whispered again, shaking her gently. She didn't move.
Cold dread crawled through me as I checked her breathing — there was none.
I screamed her name, shaking her harder, begging her to wake up.
But she was already gone.
I carried her to the hospital with trembling hands, hoping — praying — that they could do something.
But the doctor only looked at me with pity and said the words that shattered everything:
"She's gone."
Andre's remembrance ends. Tears streak down his face as he stares blankly at the floor.
"Doc…" His voice breaks into a whisper.
"It's all my fault."