Chapter 2: A Million Worlds

...

I do not know who I am.

Not in the metamorphic sense whereby I question my identity and the entirety of my existence but literally. 

It is as though my memories have been wiped clean and now all that's left is a clean slate waiting to be filled.

I watch my fist curl in and out. My vision blur up a little and I lift my hand, make a fist and rub my eyes. I stand up and walk towards the calender that hung on the opposite wall.

Just then my foot meets resistance and then the uneven rug sends me tripping.

The fall leaves me getting support on the table in the middle and a small part of my hand hurting. 

I stay there in that position, a bit shaken up by the incident. Then I push myself up and make my way towards my original destination- the calender.

'DECEMBER' it reads and all the days are crossed off with a red marker till the 17th. The number 18 was marked peculiar by a pink shade that encloses the number in a circle.

Today, presumably, is the 18th of December. An important day for the owner of this apartment, who could also be me of course.

I stand up to examine the large AC fixed on the wall above the god-knows-how-many-inches TV.

I trace the body of the large machine to find it turned off.

No artificial heat, yet it was pretty warm for the beginning of winter.

Funny how I can remember stuff about technology when my own name remains an unanswered question in the fill in the blanks section.

Shades were drawn on the windows and I don't bother checking out what's outside.

The living room looks untidy but there are large traces of human presence. An unfinished cereal that has gone bad, an unfolded blanket on the worn couch and the sound of running water in the bathroom.

I go near the bathroom but dare not go in.

I raise my hand, now a fist, and knock hesitantly three times on the door. I wait.

No answer.

"Hello?" I call out in the dead house but the sound of running water made no pause.

Fear and the dreadful feeling of loneliness enshrouds me.

'Fine,' I think to myself, 'If someone is in, let them be.'

There's a possibility of there not being anyone inside but I simply cannot take the risk.

I get hold of a butcher's knife from the kitchen and go over the trouble of checking the place while I'm at it.

Two large box of cereal in the shelf, on half empty. Another cabinet contained several spices- pretty useless since I don't like spices or any food with a dominating, unique taste for that matter.

...I don't like spices.

The other cabinets and shelves contain varieties of pots and pans and utensils, delicate chinas and wine glasses. I am low on actual food.

The pantry contains a few potatoes, a lot of onion and garlic. The fridge has a pathetic amount of cheese, a large tin of ice cream (vanilla), two big cabbages and three pieces of orange.

I'll feed on the cereal first. Then I can leave the veggies and the two bags of rice I had (THANK GOD) found in a hidden, unassuming drawer for later.

But those are perishable, soon going to rot and I wouldn't really mind eating expired cereal along with the nuts that were hidden with the rice.

There, I would eat the perishable first and then move on to cereal. Maybe I could treat myself with some ice cream and good wine every now and then.

There has to be wine somewhere with all those small glasses.

Then it hits me: Why am I planning as though I'll be spending a lot of time in here?

As I search through my memories, I remember the door in the living room that was larger than the others.

...how could I have forgotten to check the entrance?

I rush back, butcher knife in one hand.

I grab the knob and something in me tells me to look back.

I do, and I see the bathroom door located at the other end of the living room.

I do not know if it's because I am afraid but the bathroom door seems to be growing rapidly.

It's as though the white washed door was a being of it's own consciousness, an entity far more more than it seems.

The feeling surging in my chest is a weird combination of tingling and suffocation. I have seen this kind of situation before- a cat playing with it's prey.

i hear no noise other than my own heart beating against my chest.  my ears tingling. the sound of my heavy breathing. the whispers of mocking. and the sound of running water.

my increasing heartbeat. my intensified breathing. the whispers that keeps growing louder. and the sound of running water.

my heart hammering away. my breaths rapid and short. the whispers forcing me to feel claustrophobic. AND THE DARNED WATER.

Splat.

It throws up, the door, and from underneath it comes liquid that strongly smells of iron. It doesn't stop and makes it's way towards the rug.

The water still running but the whispers subdued.

I collapse onto the ground and lean on the door,one hand holding the knife and the other on my chest as I gasp for breath.

"Son of a bitch."

I push myself up and go check on the liquid.

Water. With hints of blood.

...

I lay on the large Queen size bed in the bedroom and stare up at the ceiling.

It grows eyes and we make eye contact.

We keep on holding it, unblinking, until it grows a mouth.

'Go away,' it says, 'Leave.'

I stay still and unflinching.

'She doesn't want you here.'

"Why not?" I ask.

'You know why.'

"I've forgotten. I forgot a lot of things."

'Forgotten.' The ceiling hisses in ridicule and blends back in, pretending to be normal.

...

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The room is simple and I cannot guess anything about the master's character other that them being huge fan of classics.

Classic novels, classic interior decor, classic furniture and classic music.

And she's a lady.

Mistress.

The bed has a smell of a familiar perfume, now fading away.

I roll around on it and then I roll off.

The dressing mirror is made of birch. The glass has many a dents and cracks on several places. The drawers are filled to the brim with cosmetics, hair serum, oil, combs (yes, combs), medicine and accessories. 

I lightly touch a few lipsticks and then finally decide on a bright red which I put on. I look into the mirror.

My hair is long and shabby, my tie missing, my suit crumpled. My face looks haggard and unshaved. I discover, to my surprise there already being makeup on my face.

My eyes have been underlined with dark eyeliner as though they were some sort of mistake that had to be immediately noticed and corrected.

Protions of the eyeliner has been washed away, forming a trail of black on my cheeks. 

And to top it off among my dull selves, the bright red on my lip stuck out like a sore thumb.

The silver lined glass was laughing at me by this time.

'Hahahaha.'

"Makeup isn't bound to a particular gender." I defend myself.

'Hahahahaha.'

And the laughter remains even after I smash the lipstick in my hand onto the glass. This action causes a dent to be formed on the mirror, surrounded by a few cracks.

My fingers throb.

I feel thristy.

As I drink from a blue cup that has the words 'It's a Boy!' written on it, I find my way into a room that looks like a study.

I stare up at a painting on the wall- the only form of picture in the entire house- of a woman with smiling brown eyes, blushed cheeks and long auburn hair that went down to her waist. The white dress she had on gave her a more ethereal look.

"...Patricia."

...

So far, I know that I am a man who puts on makeup, hates spices, is fond of rice and rice cream and nuts. 

And I know of a woman called Patricia Lane.

I sit down on the large, comfortable chair and open the only book on the desk- a red and black diary. The plan is to write down these little details about myself so that I would not forget again.

I open the book to the first page. My blue pen stops mid air.

1) I feel the urge to put on makeup.

2) Patricia and I were probably lovers.

3) I soap twice when I wash my hands (I don't feel good if I don't do so.)

This... seems to be my handwriting.

...

Suppose I had written these before I had my memories wiped clean. But why had I recorded these things?

It's as if I had already known my memory loss was going to happen. No, if that's the case, I would have written more about myself and what's happening.

Perhaps...

I flip the pages and I find more information about myself, written in my handwriting in various random pages. 

Some points repeated, others new.

Some calmly written, others frantic and a few unintelligible.

All of them had the same date: 18th December.

17. There are 17 entries in total.

Then I turn to the end of the diary and there, someone had calmly written:

I believe we are in a loop.

'You read that, didn't you?' The book says to me.

A loop...

I notice only now of how many clocks the room housed. All of them starts winding up and rotating counter clock wise extremely fast. One turn, the second time, then again and again and again and again and again and again.

Help...

Help me...

An invisible giant hand grips my heart and squeezes it so tightly and for so long till I feel death would be a better option for me.

I remember of how water seeps into a sponge. Fast, penetrating, undenying.

It's all coming back to me. I am the sponge, my memories the water.

No...no...no...no...no!

Make it go away!

"Stop it!"

My animal like screech seems to have worked. The room turns silent and all the clocks are now normal. The sound of running water continues.

'You know what to do.' The book says.

"Yes, yes, I know."

'Coward.' And it becomes normal.

I keep the butcher's knife there on the desk, turn off the lights, hide the rice and go to the living room.

I glance at the blinds on the window and grab the inanimate, normal door infront of me. I open it.

As I walk inside the marble tiled bathroom, I look at stacks of framed photos and photo albums crudely arranged in the otherwise empty cabinet. Shards of broken glass in the bin along with a broken down phone. I pick up toothpaste and the pink toothbrush that lay scattered on the ground among other toiletries.

I put the toothpaste on the brush and then turn on the tap. I avoid looking into the mirror as I brush.

When I'm done, I reach out for the curtain that hides the bathtub from my view.

A woman's corpse lay in the tub, her body naked and bloated. I stare at the stab wounds, now barely visible, on her chest and turn off the tap.

...

I go back to the kitchen and grab an orange. I feed on it and help myself to some nuts.

Then I lay on the wet rug and close ny eyes, orange peel in hand, wondering how long it will be till I wake up again. 

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