Withered Jasmine

I regained consciousness in the high-security wing of Blackwood Asylum, surrounded by three cooling corpses posed around a card table. The orderlies claim I butchered them, but my mind is a terrifying blank slate. Dr. Vance, the head psychiatrist, insists she wants to help me 'unlock' the trauma. During the search of my cell, I found a singed photograph hidden in my pillowcase: a girl in a school uniform, smiling. On the back, in faded ink, it reads: 'Daddy, the jasmine is blooming.' I have no memory of a daughter. Yet, every time I close my eyes, the room fills with the cloying, suffocating scent of jasmine, and I hear a teenage girl weeping in the dark.