Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-6822927-20190326201531

This is a story I am currently working on. I haven't finished it yet, but I am actually pretty scared just writing this story. This might be the scariest thing I've ever written.

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There once was a man who lived in a city which was not too big or too small. His home was an apartment on the fourth floor, his car was a Ford Focus, his job was quiet and nondescript. His face and body were remarkably average, not something anyone would remember. In short, he was a rather forgettable man in an unimportant place. Perhaps that is why God stopped believing in him.

It all started when the man woke up and suddenly realized he didn’t have a name. He sat up in his bed and stared at the wall in front of him. Perched high on it was a wide-screen television. In the glass screen, the man saw a stranger looking back at him. This stranger was sitting in a bed just like his own, wearing identical pajamas. The man got out of bed and so did the stranger.

The man stood absolutely still and so did the stranger in the television. When the man squinted his eyes at him, the stranger squinted back. When the man opened his mouth a fraction, the stranger opened his a fraction. When the man blinked, the stranger blinked.

Then the man realized who this stranger was. “That’s my reflection,” he said out loud, “it has to be my reflection - but I don’t look like that, do I?”

The man walked over to the television, copying his reflection. He tried to remember the last time he saw his reflection’s face, but television screens do not make good mirrors, as the man learned. They are dark and black, unlike the clear, shiny surface of a proper mirror. But the man didn’t have a proper mirror, he only had the television screen - at least, he thought he did.

The man suddenly realized something else: he didn’t know what he was. He knew what a television was, what a bed was, and what pajamas are, but what was he made of? His hand came up to his face, and the man decided to bite it. He felt a strong, sharp sensation traveling from his thumb up his shoulder as his teeth pierced the flesh and he cried out, his hand darting away from his mouth. There was something wet and sticky on his tongue, and he spat out a crimson glob onto the white carpet floor.

The glob spread and grew quickly before it settled, becoming an ugly mark on an otherwise ordinary carpet. The man became fascinated by the sight and bent down to get a better look. His other hand reached out and gently touched the sticky patch. It was warm to the touch, and the man recoiled away from it in disgust. He found he had a strong aversion to blood.

The man’s eyes widened then. Blood. Yes, that’s what it was. Blood. The man was made of flesh and blood.

But why? Why was he made of flesh and blood?

The man pondered this question until his alarm clock began ringing. He stood up instantly and felt a strong urge to do something. He needed to get out of this apartment and go somewhere and do things for other people so everyone could make money. As far as he understood it, money was something people needed.

The man got dressed, then noticed the blood trailing from his thumb. It occurred to him that he needed to stop the bleeding but he didn’t know why. Then he realized he was in pain and he wanted to stop it.

Without thinking, the man ran out of his bedroom and into a place he had never been in before - or at least, he thought he had never been before. This place felt like his own, he was sure of it, but something was bothering. It was actually several things, now that he thought about it.

Where was he? What was this room? And why was it his?

He needed a single answer to all three questions. He knew there was one. A phrase about birds and stones floated through his head but quickly disappeared.

The room was as white and bland as the one he had just left. There were stainless steel appliances everywhere, from the basin between two tiled surfaces to the large metal box with handles. It all came back to him instantly. This was the kitchen and it was his because… oh. He didn’t know.

His stomach grumbled, and he remembered that hunger existed and he was in it. But when he opened the fridge, he found it completely empty. He blinked, trying to convince himself there had been food in here before… before… today? Yes, today, when he woke up and saw the stranger on the television - his reflection, he corrected. There it was again, waiting for him in the stainless steel of the fridge when he closed it. He wondered when he had put on those clothes and remembered it was only a few moments ago.

He shook his head and again opened the fridge, more out of instinct than anything. To his relief, he found several items of food inside and grabbed a large packet of flesh that had been rolled into tubes. It was already open and as he bit into the juicy meat, he wondered what it was called.

It was when he held up the package that he realized he couldn’t read. His mouth hung open, letting food fall out and hit the ground. He glanced downwards to find it had disappeared, then the package with the tubes of flesh was gone as well. Both of his hands were completely empty, and he couldn’t remember for the life of him what the juicy flesh had tasted like.

Then he was reading. He didn’t know what happened, but he could suddenly read again. The words he found himself skimming over where on several plates filled neatly into a dish rack next to the sink, the name of the company. He clasped his hands together, relieved, and when he blinked for a single second, saw the plates and dish rack were gone. He dove forward, running his hands along the metal to find any hint of where they had gone, but there was none. Then he stopped, having completely forgotten what it was he had lost in the first place.

Now he understood something. Things were going through his head and leaving at an alarming rate. Had it always done that? Did he always have new ideas that suddenly vanished and never returned, lost in the recess of his subconscious? Whole concepts, the most mundane things, like his own name or the idea of reading, gone, leaving the man unsure of when they would return. Did other people do the same?

Other people. There were other people besides him! Yes, he was a person, even if he didn’t quite know what a person was. Did they look like him, with the same face and clothes?

It was to his immense surprise when he saw that something had appeared next to the sink, some metal instrument with large, solid circles in it. Plates, yes, that’s what those were. And they were in a dish rack, where he had put them. Or had they? Nothing had been there a moment ago…

“What’s going on?” he said aloud, then realized he had to go to work. He needed to get out of his apartment. He needed to find something, yes, find something very important to him. He didn’t know what it was, but it was very important and he needed it.

He opened the door, not bothering to lock it because he didn’t see the need. It wasn’t like someone would take over his apartment while he was gone. But the moment that thought occurred to him, he froze, a lump forming in his throat. What if that did happen, and he couldn’t stop it? This person could take all of his stuff and leave him with nothing - but then, what was his exactly? The apartment, for one thing, that was his. He had woken up in it. Then he wondered if he had asked himself these same questions before. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t remember.

Rather than go to work, he decided he should stay home, just in case something happened. He was at least safe in his apartment.

However, the moment he stepped through the door, he stopped, his mind going blank. Why was he in here again? He strained to recall the reason but he simply couldn’t. It was if it had left his thoughts like so many other things.

The man began pacing his home, looking for anything which might be out of place. The dishes were still in the dish rack, which was good, but was he missing anything? Well, he was missing several things, such as his name. But had anything else gone missing in the time he’d been gone from the apartment - had he even left in the first place?

Sighing, the man collapsed onto a couch, hands on his head. Then he remembered his thumb, which was still bleeding. Strangely, he couldn’t feel anything. But he had felt something moments ago, something unpleasant which demanded he stops the bleeding. It was… pain. Yes, pain, that’s what he felt, and now it was back as a dull, throbbing sensation.

The man stood up and began searching through every nook and cranny for… well, he didn’t know what it was, but he was sure he’d know when he found it. This turned out to be a box of some kind, that was green and made of plastic, a white sticker with letters plastered on it. The man squinted, trying to read them.

“First… aid…” he mumbled, then it all came flooding back to him. First Aid, yes, this was his first aid kit.

He wasted no time in applying a bandage to his thumb, but once it was finished he paused and peeled off the wrapping. His thumb was perfectly fine, there wasn’t a single bite mark on it. It didn’t need a bandage. It had never needed one in the first place.

When the man left his apartment again, this time, he did use a key to lock the door behind him, reassuring himself that it would still be here when he got back. He was probably late for work, though why it mattered why he was late for work escaped him. Surely work could wait just a few more minutes? Or even an hour. It wasn’t that important…

The man walked down the halls with this thought in his head, then remembered he still hadn’t eaten. Where could he get something to eat? Running his hand through his hair, the man hoped there was a place he could get some food close by. First off, he needed to leave the building, which was easy enough. One he found the exit he would… what would he do again? The man groaned, hand on his head as he tried to remember what he would do once he left. Oh well, it probably wasn’t important.

Finding his way out was easier said than done. More than once the man got so turned around he had to stop and ask for directions. The first time this happened, he knocked on a door at random, which opened to reveal an old lady on the other side.

“Yes, what is it?” she asked.

“I’m trying to find my way out of the building, could you tell me which way I need to go?” the man replied, hands fidgeting together.

“Just take the elevator,” the old lady answered, and was about to close the door when she stopped, blinking behind a pair of glasses. Her eyes looked at the man with a dim, surprised intellect.

“Yes?” the man said nervously, then leaned back when she stuck her head out the door, looking first one way then the opposite. It was when she had brought her head back that she noticed the man, and she yelped in surprise, hand on her chest.

“Good Heavens, where did you come from?” she asked.

“Miss, I’ve been standing right here for… oh… I think a few seconds?”

“Really?” the lady said, disbelievingly, “I didn’t notice you.”

“But we just spoke. Surely you didn’t forget that?”

“My memory may be failing but I’d remember talking with you a few seconds ago.” Then she snorted. “Who are you, anyway? I’ve never seen you before? Do you even live here?”

“I do!” the man didn’t mean to say it so loud, but he did. The old lady stepped back, startled, but the man found himself unable to care. “I do live here, I promise! I have an apartment in this building with a kitchen and a sink and a… a…” The man began mumbling to himself, trying to remember what else he had in his apartment. He began smacking the side of his head, hoping it would shake something loose in his memory.

“What on earth are you doing?” The old woman sputtered out. She was looking at him ludicrously, like he some creature from another world.

“I’m trying to remember,” the man whined, “I woke up this morning and things have been disappearing in my apartment then coming back and I’m trying to find something but I can’t remember my name or why I’m here or why I have blood in my veins!” When he stopped, his breath came out in harsh, shallow gasp.

The old lady’s hand was shaking furiously. “I think you should go see a doctor,” she said, trying to close the door quickly.

The man sprang forward, holding open her door. “Doctor? What doctor? Please, tell me where I can a doctor! What even is a doctor? Are you a doctor?!”

Then queer look came over his face, and to the old lady’s horror, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. “Are you real?” he hissed, “Are you made of flesh and blood like me? What is flesh and blood? Why am I made of it? Who am I?!” He spoke quickly, firing off one question after another in quick succession, so fast the old lady couldn’t understand them.

“You’re insane,” she said, trying to pry her wrist free. The man didn't let her. Instead, he grabbed her shoulders and pushed himself into her apartment.

“What did you say?” he said hurriedly, “What did you say I am?”

“You’re crazy! Get away from me!” The woman began to scream, hoping one of the neighbors would rush to her aid.

“That wasn’t it!” The man cried, “That wasn’t what you said! You didn’t call me crazy, you said I’m insane! What is that? Is that my name?! Is that what I am? Am I insane?!”

“Yes, yes you are insane! You’re a madman! Get away from me!”

“You know!” the man said, and relief flooded through his entire being, “You know what I am! Quick, tell me everything you know about me! Why am I insane? Is insane my name?” Then he froze, his face becoming as unreadable as stone. The man began shaking, his lips pressed together as his face turned red.

“No,” he said slowly, “no, insane isn’t my name. I don’t remember my name, but I know it can’t be insane. You’re lying to me, aren’t you? Why did you lie to me? Why won’t you tell me my name?!”

“Leave me alone!” the old lady screamed, kicking at his knees.

“Tell me! Tell me what my name is! Why won’t you tell me?! I need my name, and you know it, I know you do!” The man began shaking her roughly, tightening his grip. “Don’t play games with me! I need my name more than you need your blood! So tell me what it is! Tell me now!”

Then the man was grabbed from behind by three pairs of strong hands, pulling him away from the woman. He screamed and thrashed about, trying to break free of their grip.

“She knows!” he cried, “She knows where my name is! She’s stolen it, and won’t give it back! I want my name back, damn her, give me back my name!” 