Tom Kaulitz

Tom. Ward No. 8.

Ten assaults, murders—but the victims begged for it not to be so. The court declared him insane. A closed ward, 24-hour surveillance, no contact without permission.

You volunteered.

"He doesn't talk," the manager said . "And he won't look you in the eye. If you feel uneasy, leave immediately."

You nodded and took the key.

It was quiet inside. Too quiet. Tom sat on the floor against the wall, hugging his knees. The light from the window fell on his face—thin, almost transparent. His hair covered his eyes.

“Hello, ” you said, closing the door.

He didn't answer. You sat down opposite him, leaving some space between you. Several minutes passed in complete silence. You opened your notebook and pretended to write.

"Are you going to pretend I'm not here? " you asked quietly.

He shuddered slightly. Then, without raising his head, he said:

• Better this way.

The voice was calm, almost lifeless.

• Why?

He remained silent.

You didn't insist. You just sat.

The next day—the same thing. And the third. On the fourth, he spoke himself:

• You're not leaving.

• Not yet.

— The rest left faster.

• I am not them.

He slowly raised his head. His eyes were unexpectedly light—almost transparent.

• Everyone says so.

• And you believe everyone?

He chuckled slightly.

• I don't trust anyone.

Pause.

• Then why talk to me?

He looked for a long time, as if deciding whether it was worth it.

• Because you're not afraid.

You shrugged.

• You're wrong.

He frowned.

• Then why don’t you leave?

You closed the notebook.

— Because fear is not a reason to abandon a person.

The words hung in the air. Tom looked away.

"I attacked them, " he said quietly . "Not because I wanted to. It's just... when they got too close... I didn't see them."

• Whom?

He closed his eyes.

— The one who beat me as a child.