The House at the Edge

I initially confused and disoriented by the unexpected knock on his door. I takes a moment to gather my thoughts and compose myself, not sure who could be there.

I slowly walks towards the door, my heart racing and my mind still wrestling with the whirlwind of emotions inside myself…

I hesitantly make my way to the door, my heart beating a steady rhythm against my chest. The knock had felt unexpected and jarring, catching me off guard in the middle of my tumultuous thoughts.

As I approach the door, I pause for a moment to take a deep breath, trying to still of emotions that rages within me.

Finally, I reach the door and carefully open it, bracing myself for whoever might be on the other side.

I open the door to find my father standing there, his expression unreadable. My heart skips a beat as I come face to face with him, unsure what to expect.

His sudden appearance only serves to heighten the tangle of emotions already swirling inside me.

My eyes meet my father's and a tangled mix of emotions wash over me. He doesn't say anything at first, just studying my face with a quiet intensity. Finally, he speaks….

"Can I come in?"

I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I have ready to face my father so soon after the emotional upheaval of our conversation earlier. But his steady gaze leaves me feeling as if I have no choice but to allow him in. 

"Fine," I say tersely, stepping aside to let him enter.

My father nods silently and steps into the room, his presence immediately causing the space to feel smaller. I close the door behind him and stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling a mix of resentment and wariness towards him.

"What do you want?" I ask, my voice barely disguising the irritation I feel.

My father takes a seat on the edge of the bed and regards me with a thoughtful expression.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says quietly.

 "I can tell you're still struggling with what I told you earlier."

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling a surge of defensiveness.

"Of course I'm struggling," I say. 

I clench my fists, frustration welling up inside me.

"You must think I'm crazy," I burst out. "Is that it? 

"You just dropped a bombshell on me and expect me to accept it just like that."

"You just tell me that everything I've been remembering is fake and expect me to believe you? How do I even know you're telling the truth?"

My father's expression softens slightly as he seems to realize the depth of my confusion and pain.

"I don't think you're crazy," he says quietly. 

My father runs a hand through his hair, his tone both weary and resigned.

"Trust me, I understand how you feel," he says.

I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my emotions. I knew I was adopted, yet the memories that have been flooding my mind tell a different story. The memoried I have been experiencing feel like they hold some deeper significance beyond that.

"But..." I stammer. "But the memories I'm having... they feel so real, so vivid."

Is it really just be a product of mywishful thinking....are they?" 

"But they feel like they're connected to something deeper," I say, frustration lacing my words as I struggle to explain myself.

My father leans forward, his gaze intense and earnest.

"That's just it," he says.

"The mind can be a powerful and persuasive thing. It can convince us of things that aren't true, that never happened. Those memories may feel real to you, I understand that, but they're not real, they're just a distortion of the truth."

I feel a pang of disbelief. 

"How can you be so sure?" I protest.

"How do you know that the memories aren't real, that they weren't something that actually happened but got suppressed?"

My father's expression hardening slightly, a hint of determination creeping into his voice.

My father's tone takes on a serious, almost pleading quality, a calculated tone as he speaks, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Please," he says, his voice soft and earnest.

"You have to trust me. These memories you're having aren't real. They're just a product of your mind trying to fill in the blanks where there are none."

"They're just a figment of your imagination, a product of your subconscious trying to make sense of the pain. You need to let go of them and accept the truth, even if it painful."

Frustration and anger flare up inside me, and I feel a strong urge to argue, to prove him wrong.

"But how do you know?" I demand. 

"You can't just expect me to accept that the memories I've been having are fake without any proof!"

My father's expression remains stoic, but I detect a flash of irritation in his eyes at my resistance.

"I know because I've seen this happen before," he says, his voice taking on a firmer tone. 

"You're not the only child who has gone through this sort of thing.

"I've seen this happen in children who didn't know their biological parents," he says.

"It's common for their mind to create fake memories to fill in the gaps and make them feel more connected to their past."

"Memories being distorted, twisted, and altered to fit a certain narrative. It's common as they can't accept thier reality and to have their mind play tricks on them like this."

My father continues, his tone more insistent now.

"That's right," he says. 

"Especially when a person is struggling to make sense of their past or their identity. It's not uncommon for adopted children to experience something like this, it's a psychological phenomenon that can happen when they're unable to accept their reality and their mind tries to cope by creating false memories."

"I can see the doubts and confusion in your eyes, and I understand why you're feeling that way. So go ahead, ask me anything you want. I'm an open book.

"Alright," I say, my voice tight with a mixture of resentment and frustration.

"Then answer me this: why should I trust you? How do I know that you're not lying to me? How do I know that you're not the one who's trying to confuse and manipulate me?"

My father's expression hardens as he hears my accusations. There's a flash of anger in his eyes as he speaks.

"How can you even say that to me?!" He says, his voice tight with disapproval.

"I'm your father. I've raised you, cared for you, loved you all your life. Why would I LIE TO YOU?"

My father's response only serves to fuel my irritation and suspicion.

"Is that really so surprising to you?" you snap back.

"After all the secrets and lies you've been keeping from me?"

My father takes a deep breath, his expression softening slightly as he tries to control his emotions.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice quiet but sincere. 

My father exhales heavily, struggling to keep his frustration in check.

"Why don't you believe me?" he says, his voice taut with barely contained irritation. 

"What can I do to make you trust me?"

My father looks at me pleadingly, his expression desperate.

"Please," he says, his voice almost begging.

"Just answer me this: what do I have to do to get you to believe me? Tell me, and I'll do it."

I think for a moment, trying to come up with a way to determine the trustworthiness of my memories. After a moment, an idea strikes you.

"Alright," I say, my expression hardening. 

"If you're telling the truth, then tell me, did you kill the girl which reside in the well and take Alice causing her to die?- who we met during we moving to a new house at the village"

My father's eyes widen in shock at my sudden and unexpected accusation. He stares at me for a moment, speechless, before finally finding his voice.

"What did you just say?" he says, his voice barely above a whisper as the color drains from his face.

"In my memories, I also saw that same kid and beautiful women beside her who have a same resemblance with each other. They look so afraid and in despair. Then.... I saw YOU behind them!"

My father's expression goes from shock to confusion, his eyes darting back and forth as he trying to process your question.

"Wh-what?" he stammers, his voice uncertain. "

"What are you talking about? What on earth made you ask that?" he exclaims, his voice laced with astonishment.

My father shakes his head, looking baffled by my question. His eyes widening in disbelief.

"No, no, you've got it all wrong," he says, his voice wavering slightly.

He tries to downplay my accusations once more, his voice a mix of frustration and desperation.

"This is just a case of false memories, nothing more," he says, shaking his head firmly. 

"Your mind is just confused and you're believing things that aren't real."

My father continues his attempts to deny and dismiss the memories that have been surfacing in my mind, his voice laced with frustration and concern.

"Please," he says, his voice taking on a note of pleading.

"You have to try to understand. You're remembering things that never happened. These memories, these images....."

"It's not REAL. NONE OF IT!."