His head pounded against a drum of drugs and alcohol as his eyes opened, searing his brain with the orange light above. He closed them, before rolling to his side and sneezing.
I’m dying, he thought as the pressure in his head swelled up.
I’m-
Through the grogginess of his sickness, he came to a realization
I? Who the hell is that?
He couldn’t remember anything. Not a name, not a single memory. All sense of himself was wiped clean, leaving him feeling like an empty shell.
He knew he used to be somebody, but who he was had apparently vanished in his sleep. He felt empty, his body a vacuum. A vacuum with a headache and a cold.
He sneezed again, and opened his eyes to the orange light. There was a single old bulb hanging down from a chewed wire, grime distorting the light, but it was enough to illuminate the room. Torn wallpaper, an unwashed carpet, a shambled, crooked closest door, and a splintery wooden door with a peephole all made up into a room he didn’t recognize.
How could he possibly forget who he was? No, he didn’t forget. You can’t forget. It was stolen. He had heard about that, identity theft. People stealing…how did he know that? How could he know about identity theft without even remembering his name? No, it couldn’t have been identity theft, that’s only figurative for people stealing your credit card and stuff, not the actual person.
He thought of other things he remembered. 1+1=2, the United States of America, the currency was dollars, underwear, pants, shirt, socks, shoes, park, reverse, neutral, drive, 3, 2, L, the Beatles was made up of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr. Did he like the Beatles? He must have if he could remember their members, but when he tried to bring up any memories, he was hit by a brick wall. It was like something was blocking his memory, his identity, from surfacing.
He got out of the bed and surveyed where he was. He felt like he didn’t know this room, but maybe that was just something else that was blocked.
Then he realized he was standing completely naked. The closet, he thought, as he made his way towards it. He had to be clothed if he was going to figure this out. He pulled on the vertical door handle, dust rubbing onto his hands. Opening the battered door, he found a single, carefully folded set of clothes. White socks and sneakers, gray boxers, blue jeans, a tan tshirt with a logo in the middle he didn’t recognize. A thin, grayish-green zipped was hanging precariously over the top of them.
Boxers, he thought as he pulled them on, pants, shirt, socks, shoes, jacket, now zip it up. It was reflexive to him, as it would be to anyone who had done it every day for their life. It really was just his self that was gone, and nothing else.
The thought wasn’t comforting.
Clothed, he looked around the room, wondering what to do next. There wasn’t a window, but the peep hole made him think he was in a hotel room, rundown as it was. Maybe if he got the room number he could ask somebody at the front desk who it was rented to, so he could get his name. If he was in the room it must have been rented to him, he should legally be able to do that.
But as he was walking towards the door, a strange thought entered his mind, that maybe there was something else in the room, something that would help him like the clothes.
But there was nothing else. Besides the closet, the only thing left in the room was the bed.
Maybe underneath it?
He walked over, his head still feeling like it was going to explode from the pressure, and bent down. The orange light wasn’t strong enough to show him anything under the bed, but his hands found something rectangular. He pulled it out, letting the light shine on it.
It was a hardcover book, faded green, with no words printed on the outside. He ran his finger down the spine, and felt no imprints whatsoever. There was never a title or author printed on this.
And then his hangover was sucked from his body. Dread filled his body, an inescapable fear. Opening this book wouldn’t help him - he shouldn’t read it. Ge shouldn’t read it. There was no reason for the fear, it was just a book, but he couldn’t break free of it. It paralyzed him, made him unable to act. Again and again it hit him. Don’t open it, don’t open it.
He opened it, and read the first sentence.
“When Jeremy woke up today, he couldn’t remember who he was.”
He dropped the book.
Did someone do this to him? Take his identity and leave him here alone, with a book there to tease him?
No, it couldn’t be. The book wasn’t handwritten, it was printed. And it was too old to have been made within a day, or even a year.
Why was he terrified of opening it?
Not being able to decide if it was a smart choice or not, he picked the book up and continued reading.
It was the same. The man woke up in a hotel room, naked, and found clothes. There was no other difference, except that the man knew his name was Jeremy, and found no book. The man went out of the room to a hotel lobby, went outside, and hailed a taxi, telling the driver to take him to 2174 Green Street. And then the text ended, leaving the rest of the pages blank.
He stood up, and sat down on top of the bed.
Jeremy. Was that supposed to be him? There was something abnormal about the book, just like how abnormal his position was. This book…it’s connected to his ego death. He knew that much as well as he knew the members of the Beatles. Something supernatural had to be taking place here, some sort of God or Spirit doing this to him. What religion was he again? He tried to remember what they where. There was one that dealt with churches, and one more that dealt with the moon…he knew one of them was Christianity, but besides the name he could remember nothing else. Was his name Jeremy? He didn’t know if it was his name or not, but he knew he needed one, and saw no reason not to take it.
Jeremy stood up off the bed, and walked towards the door. His hand instinctively swallowed the knob and turned it, letting him out. Just like in the book, the hallway led straight down to a lobby, where he saw the back of a large man resting in a chair, watching the television set behind him. The man didn’t hear him.
Jeremy wondered if he should check out, maybe get his real name from the man behind the desk, but since the Jeremy in the book didn’t do so, he decided against it. He had no idea where he was, so he might as well follow the only lead he had.
The sun shined through the glass door, glowing over any image he could see through it. Jeremy opened the door and stepped outside, and looked at where he was.
Clouds blanketed across the sky, with the sun barely coming through. He was on some sort of street, with skyscrapers a few blocks away.
Outside of a city, he thought, as he raised his hand for a taxi. One parked by him within a few seconds, and Jeremy walked inside.
“Green street?” said the cab driver, a fat sweaty man with an overgrown, wild beard.
A sweaty-toothed madman, he thought for no apparent reason as he tried to remember where to go. Goddamn, he forgot to bring the book with him. What was the address again?
And then Jeremy realized exactly what the man had just said.
The cab driver was eying him from the mirror, not letting a single movement get out of his sight, but Jeremy couldn’t move. He was suspended, incapable of reason. How had he…?
Loss for words, Jeremy simply nodded. The madman turned the ignition, started the meter, and drove off.
He should have brought the book, it might have told him how to deal with that. How could he have forgotten it, his only guide? Not that it could do much good, the book had ended right there. It didn’t mention a cab driver. But maybe it would reveal more the further he got?
No you idiot, he told himself, it’s a book. Just a book.
It took a few minutes for the cab driver to park.
“$11.75” The man said, reaching a grubby hand behind him for the cash.
He forgot about paying. Not knowing what to do, Jeremy reached his hand into his back pocket, and to his surprise found a wallet. He wondered if it was always there, but didn't continue the thought as he pulled it out. It was dark leather, weather beaten. Inside was a single twenty, which he placed in the cab driver's hand, and then realized he was giving away the only cash he had.
“No tip,” he said, hearing his voice for the first time. He didn’t recognize it. The cab driver grumbled and threw him the change. Jeremy pocketed it and exited the cab, the driver speeding off the second the door was shut.
2174 Green street was one of the buildings he had seen earlier, rising up to scrape the heavens. Steel frames held the black glass in place, and a revolving door led inside, with dozens of men and women in suits walking in and out. Not sure what else to do, Jeremy followed them, noticing how out of place he was in his clothes. He wondered if he had ever worn a suit before as he pushed his way through, every step heightening his sense of displacement.
Inside was a massive lobby, the ceiling a full story up. To the left and right extremes was a type of trench, filled with water and fish, with a constant flow leading into it. In the middle of the lobby was a crescent reception desk, with three women sitting behind it, all with slick laptops and headsets. Behind the desk was a marble wall, elevators and corridors built into it, every one covered by a security guard nodding as the employees walked past. None of it was familiar.
What was he suppose to do? He doubted the security guards would let him into the elevator, given the way he looked. He was supposed to be here, he knew that, the green book told him so. But now that he was here, there was nothing.
Noticing that one of the guards was eyeing him, Jeremy walked up to the receptionist desk. Maybe he would know what to do by talking to one of them.
“Welcome to AliCorp sir, what can I help you with?” said the middle receptionist, too old for her spiked hairstyle by twenty years.
“I…” Jeremy started, but then stopped. What could he say?
“I’m here for an appointment” he said, repeating the first thing his mind could come up with. It was true enough.
“Who are you here to see?” she asked.
His mind was blank. He had no idea what he could possibly say. The book had not mentioned any other name; there was nothing he could say.
Come up with a name, he told himself, but he thought of nothing. The receptionist was staring at him peculiarly.
“Jeremy” he finally replied, slowly. The receptionist was still eyeing him.
“Jeremy who?” She asked, challenging him with every syllable.
“Forget it,” said Jeremy, turning around to leave. He heard her whisper in her headset, and knew he had to get out of there. Even if he wasn’t dressed out of place, his attitude alone would have caused suspicion.
“Excuse me, sir!” shouted someone behind him, but Jeremy didn’t look back, instead briskly walking towards the revolving doors.
This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right, I shouldn’t have trusted the cab driver, why did I even talk to her I should have just left when I noticed nothing, this isn’t right I must have messed up the address this isn’t right…
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Jeremy pivoted out of the grip, but his trail of thought had made him loose track of his position, and the turn threw him off balance. His body fell into the trench, half submerged in the sullied water. It rushed into his open mouth and ears, filling them with the black grime of the fish tank. He panicked, flailing around until he upturned himself, spitting the water out on his chest. Something hard pressed into his back, which he grabbed.
It was the book.
The security guard had his back turned to him, telling his headset to call the police. Everyone was staring at him in bewilderment.
He ripped the book open, not caring how it go there. The pages were waterlogged, but he could still read the changes in the first page.
“Get out of there. Now. They’re after you.
The alleyway. Right, left, straight, left, left, right, straight, straight, right. Answer the phone.”
Putting all of his faith into the only thing that connected him to the world, Jeremy gripped the book and leapt up out of the trench, sprinting towards the marble walled corridors that he’d assume would lead out back.
The security guard shouted at him. He heard the sound of footsteps behind him, and saw the other guards swarming towards him, nightsticks out. He wasn’t going to make it, they where too quick, but he kept on running, panic entering him with every step.
NOW NOW NOW, his mind echoed in a continuous loop. And then he heard a tearing, roaring noise behind him, the shattering of glass, shouts and screams. The security guards stopped in their places, giving Jeremy time to turn and see what happened.
The revolving door was gone, for someone had driven a car through it. And as everyone ran, masked gunmen jumped out of the car, opening fire on the receptionists. The crescent desk exploded in a haze of paper, blood, and smoke. The spiked-hair receptionist wheeled back, her face missing its features and skin.
Jeremy ran.
Oh god oh god oh god
A security guard before him tried to pull out his gun, but his chest exploded red before he could aim it. Jeremy, for a reason unknown to him, swooped down and grabbed the pistol out of the pool of maroon, as more shots where fired around him in the lobby.
I shouldn’t have come here, I shouldn’t have come, Oh God, why did I show up, I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die oh god oh god
Jeremy ran through one of the straight corridors, the sound of gunfire dieing out. He still ran, sweat running down his body like the cab driver’s face, his heart beating faster then his legs moved. The exit loomed up to him at the end of the corridor. Jeremy slammed his way out of the door, and fell outside.
The book was still in his hand. Not bothering to get up, Jeremy flipped it open, reading the front page.
“The alleyway. Right, left, straight, left, left, right, straight, straight, left. Answer the phone.”
He scrambled up and ran to his right, stuffing the book into his back pocket as he ran through the alleyway, the wet gun in his pocket.
Right, left, straight, left, left, right…, he thought as he followed the instructions, running through the apparent maze of alleyways.
Why would the book lead him there? It didn’t do anything for him except almost place a bullet in his back. He didn’t know why it was being attacked, and didn’t care, and couldn’t see any reason for him to be involved with it in any way.
Maybe the book knew he would need a gun, so it placed him there? But what would he need a gun for? He just wanted to know who he was, nothing more. He didn’t need a gun for that. Hell, he didn’t even have a name to him. He was still just going by the name he gave himself. The last thing he needed was a gun.
He finished the instructions. He was on a sidewalk. People were walking by, doing their normal business. The clouds had lost some of their forms. A cop car sped by with its sirens, the only hint that anything big was happening just a few blocks away.
There was a tinted phone booth nearby. Jeremy pushed his way through the crowd to get inside of it, and closed the door. The phone rang immediately.
He picked it up, and before he could say hello he heard a sing-song voice on the other line.
“King Ben the Wicked” it said, the last beat trailing off into silence, only to be replaced by the sounds of gunshots and screams, the same ones he heard in the lobby of AliCorp. It too faded off, and was replaced by the dial tone.
Frustrated, Jeremy hung the phone up.
How could he have heard what just happened? It was impossible, which would mean that the call wasn’t real. And if the call wasn’t real, the book, which was connected to it, had to be false as well, which would explain how it had appeared underneath him in the water.
He pulled the book out of his back pocket, and saw that it was dry. Proof, he thought. He felt like an idiot for following it at all, he should have seen it was fake, a hallucination.
But he could still feel it. The cover was rough, like any old book, and when he flipped through the pages he could feel the breeze coming being forced out, and hear the pages flip by. Everything about it seemed real, but he knew it couldn’t be, which meant he was going crazy. His amnesia, the book, the phone call, they were all just the byproducts of his warped brain.
The massacre couldn’t have been real either, he realized, since it was connected to the hallucinated phone call and book. The gun couldn’t have been real either. Nor, he realized, was he. No one can forget their self identity, not even a crazy person. No, he could only be an imagination, something someone was playing him, dictating what scenario he will go through next.
He pulled the gun out. There was no reason for him not to. There was nothing for him left to do. Follow the book? It was fake. Everything was fake. He felt the icy metal touch his mouth, tasted the blood on the barrel of the gun, but he still didn’t believe it. He’d see how the person who invented him would like it once he blew his head off.
Check the book, his brain whispered to him. Don’t fire, check it.
As if someone else was controlling him, he put the gun away and pulled open the book.
I really am crazy, he thought as his eyes focused on the words.
The old story was back, the one from the hotel. It continued on, though, past the taxi, detailing this Jeremy going to an office building, where it was again attacked. Jeremy ran away, but didn’t grab a gun. Like before, Jeremy found no book, instead taking a random way through the alleyway. It ended with Jeremy walking down the street, and going into the alleyway again.
Not knowing what else to do other then shooting himself, Jeremy placed the book back in his pocket, and walked outside. He followed the pedestrians, and gained more then a few odd looks for being soaked with the trench water. He didn’t care what they thought. They saw him, so they also couldn’t be real. Was he real before he lost his identity? Or did he never have one, instead just being something thought up within the day?
Right when he was about to turn into the alley, a limo pulled up beside him.
“Get in,” a gruff voice commanded from the passenger’s window.
Whimsically, Jeremy entered.
There was no one else in the back seat, and the driver had the division window up, so Jeremy couldn’t even see who it was. The driver locked the doors and went back into the traffic.
He didn’t know why he had gone in. There was no reason not to, he reasoned. The book had told him to enter the alley, but the book wasn’t real, so there was no real for him to follow it. Once he was inside, he had an odd feeling that the limo ride would end it for him. Either he would get answers, which is exactly what he wanted, or they’d end him, which was just the same.
He was in the limo for over an hour. The air conditioning wasn’t on, and the sun beat down on the black limo the entire time, making the temperate unbearable. The driver never lowered the windows at all. It dried his clothes.
The car eventually pulled into a vacant, underground parking lot, no guard to block its downward ramp.
“Get out” the driver said once they had parked. Jeremy hadn’t even realized he had lowered the division window. Not knowing what else to do, Jeremy got out.
The Limo reversed out of the parking lot, leaving him alone. There were no other cars. He thought about checking the book, but decided against it. It would probably just tell him to leave.
“Ah! There you are” said a thin man who appeared out of the shadows. His black hair was combed in a professional manner, and his business suit shined with its expensiveness.
Jeremy didn’t respond. This was just another hallucination.
“I bet you have several questions,” the man said, in an almost cheerful tone, “but I’ll start with the one I’m most willing to answer. My name is Matthew Wallace. I’m CEO of AliCorp, which I saw you visited earlier today.”
“You were attacked” said Jeremy, not exactly sure why he stated it. It seemed a logical thing to respond with. He knew the man wasn’t real, but he had decided to talk to him anyways.
“I’m sorry?” asked Matthew, his eyes narrowed.
“Your business. Someone drove a car into it and started shooting people when I was there,” said Jeremy.
“Was that what you saw? Anyways, since I just left there within the half hour, I can assure you that never happened” said Matthew.
“What do you mean ‘Was that what I saw’?” asked Jeremy.
“We were monitoring you on the cameras,” explained Matthew, “you had quite an incident. Falling into the water, running like a madman, bursting through the fire exit. It took all of my power to not make the security guards take you in.”
The thought that he was being watched disturbed him. But what the man said coincided with his earlier thought. The massacre didn’t happen. Unless it did, and it was this man that had wrong. He decided to test him.
“Then how did I get this gun?” asked Jeremy, pulling out his pistol. The blood had dried in the limo ride.
Matthew gave it a glance.
“Well, I don’t know. How did you get it?” he asked, like a father would ask a child.
“One of your security officers. He was shot in the attack, and I picked it up from him.”
Matthew seemed worried by this, and held his hand out for the gun. Jeremy recoiled, and quickly placed it back in his pocket.
“I don’t know how you got it,” Matthew conceded, lowering his hand. “That’s one mystery I don’t have an answer to.”
“Well, I do know how I got it,” said Jeremy, “I got it because your place was attacked. And I know why you didn’t realize it was attacked, and that’s because you’re not real. You’re just another bloody hallucination. You’re no different then me.”
“I can assure you we are both very real,” said Matthew.
“Oh? Well if we’re real, how can you explain randomly picking me up in the middle of the street for no reason at all?” Jeremy smirked. The pompousness of the man had struck a nerve.
“I knew where you were because I placed a tracking device in the sole of your shoe,” explained Matthew. “I placed the device in your shoe because I needed to keep track of you. And I needed to keep track of you, because I did this to you.”
With that, Jeremy’s façade collapsed.
He whipped his gun out and pointed it at Matthew’s head.
“You?” asked Jeremy, staring into this strangers face. Or maybe he wasn’t a stranger. For all Jeremy knew, this could have been his best friend, his brother. The realization that he was real only made it harder to bear.
“Did you write it?” he asked, when the man didn’t answer.
“Write what?” Matthew asked, not at all disturbed at being held at gunpoint.
“The book! The one that’s been changing!” yelled Jeremy as his free hand shot into his back pocket. But the book was gone. He checked all of his pockets, moving his eyes from Matthew, who didn’t make a move.
“I did not write any book, and judging by your expression, I’d assume the book is as real as your vision of my business being assaulted,” said Matthew.
Jeremy retrained his eyes on the man.
“What did you do to me” he growled. This, all of this, had to end. He couldn’t continue like this, not for another minute, not knowing who he was, if he was even real.
“I drugged you, Mr. Reeves.” Matthew said, in a tranquil pitch.
“Reeves,” Jeremy muttered to himself, the first part of the man’s sentence blowing past him. His full name. He had to say it out loud, just to make it real, to make it trigger something.
“Jeremy Reeves,” he said allowed.
“No,” said Matthew, “not Jeremy. Benjamin. Benjamin Reeves. I don’t know where you would get Jeremy from.”
Benjamin Reeves. And to his annoyance, the name meant nothing to him. There was no revelation, no sudden rushing of memory or identity. It was just another title to use.
At least he knew it was the right one.
And then the first part of the man’s sentence registered.
“You drugged me?”
“Yes. Well, not personally,” said Matthew, “but I ordered it used on you. It was a powerful drug, designed for spies in case of capture. It was unique in what it did; A perfect ego death, the complete loss of all sense of being. It was put aside as being impractical in light of the more normal cyanide pills, but a sample of them was still kept. The amount of bribes I used to get it could have probably allowed me to add another department to my business, but oh well,” Matthew said, as if it was just nothing.
So Benjamin was definitely real. It didn’t make it any easier.
“I’d assume the hallucinations you’re having are the results of the drug. As you can tell, it’s quite powerful.” Matthew added.
“Why?”
It was all Ben could think of asking. He had thought something supernatural was at work, but it wasn’t. It was just a man, a single rich person who had done this to him.
“Why? Because, Benjamin, you were a terrible person. The experiences you had gone through had warped you into nothing more then blight on society. You were a murderer, a thief, and a rapist, who would never repent unless everything about you was washed away. And that’s what I did.”
“No.” It was his only response to what he was being told. A murderer? A rapist? No, he couldn’t be. There was no way.
“Sadly, yes,” said Matthew, “and trust me, I wish you weren’t either. When I first found out about you, I wanted you dead. I thought of finding you and having you killed, to be gutted like a fish, to be put through the agony you caused your victims. But when my private investigators gave me your file, I decided against it. I won’t tell you what you went through, for the obvious reason of possibly turning you back to that path, but I wanted you to know why I did this to you. By wiping you clean, you have a fresh start, a chance to be free of your sins.”
Benjamin still didn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true; no way could it be true. There was something else going on here, the man was lying for a reason.
“After getting the drug, I had one of my colleagues track you down to a bar, where he drank with you until you were too inebriated to walk. We forced the drug into you, rented that terrible hotel room, and placed you in it. We also placed the clothes for you, with a tracking device in those shoes. We were going to wait a while before calling you in, for you to fully develop a new personality before breaking this to you, but when you freaked out in AliCorp we had no choice but to bring you in.”
Was this some jest? Did this man just drug him for fun, and is now toying with him?
“And so that is why and how I killed you. Body wise, you’re still alive, but the man you used to be is dead. If you follow the road out of here you’ll find a black Civic parked to the right. It’s unlocked, and the keys are in the ash tray. There’s more stuff in the glove compartment. Take it, and do something useful with your life this time.” Matthew Wallace explained, but despite what he was doing he didn’t smile, he didn’t even seem to blink. His face was deadly tranquil.
“That is all I have to say. You may shoot now.”
A minute later, Benjamin started to walk up out of the lot, with no idea of what to make of what had just happened. He had killed a man, a man that had killed him and lied to him.
Matthew Wallace had deserved that bullet.
Benjamin was no thief, no rapist, no murderer.
But you just shot a man, a voice told him, but he pushed it out of his mind as he continued along the road. He spotted the black Civic soon enough, and just as Matthew said he found it unlocked. He sat inside, and opened the ashtray. True to the word, Ben found a set of keys. He left them there and moved to the glove box.
Inside was a wallet filled with cash, a cell phone, and a manila folder. He pulled them out, placing them on the passengers seat as he inspected them. The wallet was leather, rich, and was filled with money. The cell phone was powered, but had no names in it. Then he looked in the manila folder.
Staring back at him was a glaring mug shot of a man labeled Benjamin Reeves.
The papers in the folder read clear enough. Benjamin Reeves, arrested for the **** and murder of Dianna Wallace. Mistrial: Police Misconduct.
Everything came crashing down.
This could be false, he told himself, but he didn’t believe it. He was what Matthew said he had been.
He felt a lump in between him and the car seat. Reaching down, he pulled out the green, beaten book from his back pocket.
Benjamin Reeves gave one last look at the book, and then threw it out the window. His right hand started the car ignition, every action seeming to take an hour. He didn’t know what to think.
The cell phone rang. He answered it.
“I drugged you, Mr. Reeves,” said Matthew Wallace, in a sing-song voice.
I’m dying, he thought as the pressure in his head swelled up.
I’m-
Through the grogginess of his sickness, he came to a realization
I? Who the hell is that?
He couldn’t remember anything. Not a name, not a single memory. All sense of himself was wiped clean, leaving him feeling like an empty shell.
He knew he used to be somebody, but who he was had apparently vanished in his sleep. He felt empty, his body a vacuum. A vacuum with a headache and a cold.
He sneezed again, and opened his eyes to the orange light. There was a single old bulb hanging down from a chewed wire, grime distorting the light, but it was enough to illuminate the room. Torn wallpaper, an unwashed carpet, a shambled, crooked closest door, and a splintery wooden door with a peephole all made up into a room he didn’t recognize.
How could he possibly forget who he was? No, he didn’t forget. You can’t forget. It was stolen. He had heard about that, identity theft. People stealing…how did he know that? How could he know about identity theft without even remembering his name? No, it couldn’t have been identity theft, that’s only figurative for people stealing your credit card and stuff, not the actual person.
He thought of other things he remembered. 1+1=2, the United States of America, the currency was dollars, underwear, pants, shirt, socks, shoes, park, reverse, neutral, drive, 3, 2, L, the Beatles was made up of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr. Did he like the Beatles? He must have if he could remember their members, but when he tried to bring up any memories, he was hit by a brick wall. It was like something was blocking his memory, his identity, from surfacing.
He got out of the bed and surveyed where he was. He felt like he didn’t know this room, but maybe that was just something else that was blocked.
Then he realized he was standing completely naked. The closet, he thought, as he made his way towards it. He had to be clothed if he was going to figure this out. He pulled on the vertical door handle, dust rubbing onto his hands. Opening the battered door, he found a single, carefully folded set of clothes. White socks and sneakers, gray boxers, blue jeans, a tan tshirt with a logo in the middle he didn’t recognize. A thin, grayish-green zipped was hanging precariously over the top of them.
Boxers, he thought as he pulled them on, pants, shirt, socks, shoes, jacket, now zip it up. It was reflexive to him, as it would be to anyone who had done it every day for their life. It really was just his self that was gone, and nothing else.
The thought wasn’t comforting.
Clothed, he looked around the room, wondering what to do next. There wasn’t a window, but the peep hole made him think he was in a hotel room, rundown as it was. Maybe if he got the room number he could ask somebody at the front desk who it was rented to, so he could get his name. If he was in the room it must have been rented to him, he should legally be able to do that.
But as he was walking towards the door, a strange thought entered his mind, that maybe there was something else in the room, something that would help him like the clothes.
But there was nothing else. Besides the closet, the only thing left in the room was the bed.
Maybe underneath it?
He walked over, his head still feeling like it was going to explode from the pressure, and bent down. The orange light wasn’t strong enough to show him anything under the bed, but his hands found something rectangular. He pulled it out, letting the light shine on it.
It was a hardcover book, faded green, with no words printed on the outside. He ran his finger down the spine, and felt no imprints whatsoever. There was never a title or author printed on this.
And then his hangover was sucked from his body. Dread filled his body, an inescapable fear. Opening this book wouldn’t help him - he shouldn’t read it. Ge shouldn’t read it. There was no reason for the fear, it was just a book, but he couldn’t break free of it. It paralyzed him, made him unable to act. Again and again it hit him. Don’t open it, don’t open it.
He opened it, and read the first sentence.
“When Jeremy woke up today, he couldn’t remember who he was.”
He dropped the book.
Did someone do this to him? Take his identity and leave him here alone, with a book there to tease him?
No, it couldn’t be. The book wasn’t handwritten, it was printed. And it was too old to have been made within a day, or even a year.
Why was he terrified of opening it?
Not being able to decide if it was a smart choice or not, he picked the book up and continued reading.
It was the same. The man woke up in a hotel room, naked, and found clothes. There was no other difference, except that the man knew his name was Jeremy, and found no book. The man went out of the room to a hotel lobby, went outside, and hailed a taxi, telling the driver to take him to 2174 Green Street. And then the text ended, leaving the rest of the pages blank.
He stood up, and sat down on top of the bed.
Jeremy. Was that supposed to be him? There was something abnormal about the book, just like how abnormal his position was. This book…it’s connected to his ego death. He knew that much as well as he knew the members of the Beatles. Something supernatural had to be taking place here, some sort of God or Spirit doing this to him. What religion was he again? He tried to remember what they where. There was one that dealt with churches, and one more that dealt with the moon…he knew one of them was Christianity, but besides the name he could remember nothing else. Was his name Jeremy? He didn’t know if it was his name or not, but he knew he needed one, and saw no reason not to take it.
Jeremy stood up off the bed, and walked towards the door. His hand instinctively swallowed the knob and turned it, letting him out. Just like in the book, the hallway led straight down to a lobby, where he saw the back of a large man resting in a chair, watching the television set behind him. The man didn’t hear him.
Jeremy wondered if he should check out, maybe get his real name from the man behind the desk, but since the Jeremy in the book didn’t do so, he decided against it. He had no idea where he was, so he might as well follow the only lead he had.
The sun shined through the glass door, glowing over any image he could see through it. Jeremy opened the door and stepped outside, and looked at where he was.
Clouds blanketed across the sky, with the sun barely coming through. He was on some sort of street, with skyscrapers a few blocks away.
Outside of a city, he thought, as he raised his hand for a taxi. One parked by him within a few seconds, and Jeremy walked inside.
“Green street?” said the cab driver, a fat sweaty man with an overgrown, wild beard.
A sweaty-toothed madman, he thought for no apparent reason as he tried to remember where to go. Goddamn, he forgot to bring the book with him. What was the address again?
And then Jeremy realized exactly what the man had just said.
The cab driver was eying him from the mirror, not letting a single movement get out of his sight, but Jeremy couldn’t move. He was suspended, incapable of reason. How had he…?
Loss for words, Jeremy simply nodded. The madman turned the ignition, started the meter, and drove off.
He should have brought the book, it might have told him how to deal with that. How could he have forgotten it, his only guide? Not that it could do much good, the book had ended right there. It didn’t mention a cab driver. But maybe it would reveal more the further he got?
No you idiot, he told himself, it’s a book. Just a book.
It took a few minutes for the cab driver to park.
“$11.75” The man said, reaching a grubby hand behind him for the cash.
He forgot about paying. Not knowing what to do, Jeremy reached his hand into his back pocket, and to his surprise found a wallet. He wondered if it was always there, but didn't continue the thought as he pulled it out. It was dark leather, weather beaten. Inside was a single twenty, which he placed in the cab driver's hand, and then realized he was giving away the only cash he had.
“No tip,” he said, hearing his voice for the first time. He didn’t recognize it. The cab driver grumbled and threw him the change. Jeremy pocketed it and exited the cab, the driver speeding off the second the door was shut.
2174 Green street was one of the buildings he had seen earlier, rising up to scrape the heavens. Steel frames held the black glass in place, and a revolving door led inside, with dozens of men and women in suits walking in and out. Not sure what else to do, Jeremy followed them, noticing how out of place he was in his clothes. He wondered if he had ever worn a suit before as he pushed his way through, every step heightening his sense of displacement.
Inside was a massive lobby, the ceiling a full story up. To the left and right extremes was a type of trench, filled with water and fish, with a constant flow leading into it. In the middle of the lobby was a crescent reception desk, with three women sitting behind it, all with slick laptops and headsets. Behind the desk was a marble wall, elevators and corridors built into it, every one covered by a security guard nodding as the employees walked past. None of it was familiar.
What was he suppose to do? He doubted the security guards would let him into the elevator, given the way he looked. He was supposed to be here, he knew that, the green book told him so. But now that he was here, there was nothing.
Noticing that one of the guards was eyeing him, Jeremy walked up to the receptionist desk. Maybe he would know what to do by talking to one of them.
“Welcome to AliCorp sir, what can I help you with?” said the middle receptionist, too old for her spiked hairstyle by twenty years.
“I…” Jeremy started, but then stopped. What could he say?
“I’m here for an appointment” he said, repeating the first thing his mind could come up with. It was true enough.
“Who are you here to see?” she asked.
His mind was blank. He had no idea what he could possibly say. The book had not mentioned any other name; there was nothing he could say.
Come up with a name, he told himself, but he thought of nothing. The receptionist was staring at him peculiarly.
“Jeremy” he finally replied, slowly. The receptionist was still eyeing him.
“Jeremy who?” She asked, challenging him with every syllable.
“Forget it,” said Jeremy, turning around to leave. He heard her whisper in her headset, and knew he had to get out of there. Even if he wasn’t dressed out of place, his attitude alone would have caused suspicion.
“Excuse me, sir!” shouted someone behind him, but Jeremy didn’t look back, instead briskly walking towards the revolving doors.
This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right, I shouldn’t have trusted the cab driver, why did I even talk to her I should have just left when I noticed nothing, this isn’t right I must have messed up the address this isn’t right…
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Jeremy pivoted out of the grip, but his trail of thought had made him loose track of his position, and the turn threw him off balance. His body fell into the trench, half submerged in the sullied water. It rushed into his open mouth and ears, filling them with the black grime of the fish tank. He panicked, flailing around until he upturned himself, spitting the water out on his chest. Something hard pressed into his back, which he grabbed.
It was the book.
The security guard had his back turned to him, telling his headset to call the police. Everyone was staring at him in bewilderment.
He ripped the book open, not caring how it go there. The pages were waterlogged, but he could still read the changes in the first page.
“Get out of there. Now. They’re after you.
The alleyway. Right, left, straight, left, left, right, straight, straight, right. Answer the phone.”
Putting all of his faith into the only thing that connected him to the world, Jeremy gripped the book and leapt up out of the trench, sprinting towards the marble walled corridors that he’d assume would lead out back.
The security guard shouted at him. He heard the sound of footsteps behind him, and saw the other guards swarming towards him, nightsticks out. He wasn’t going to make it, they where too quick, but he kept on running, panic entering him with every step.
NOW NOW NOW, his mind echoed in a continuous loop. And then he heard a tearing, roaring noise behind him, the shattering of glass, shouts and screams. The security guards stopped in their places, giving Jeremy time to turn and see what happened.
The revolving door was gone, for someone had driven a car through it. And as everyone ran, masked gunmen jumped out of the car, opening fire on the receptionists. The crescent desk exploded in a haze of paper, blood, and smoke. The spiked-hair receptionist wheeled back, her face missing its features and skin.
Jeremy ran.
Oh god oh god oh god
A security guard before him tried to pull out his gun, but his chest exploded red before he could aim it. Jeremy, for a reason unknown to him, swooped down and grabbed the pistol out of the pool of maroon, as more shots where fired around him in the lobby.
I shouldn’t have come here, I shouldn’t have come, Oh God, why did I show up, I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die oh god oh god
Jeremy ran through one of the straight corridors, the sound of gunfire dieing out. He still ran, sweat running down his body like the cab driver’s face, his heart beating faster then his legs moved. The exit loomed up to him at the end of the corridor. Jeremy slammed his way out of the door, and fell outside.
The book was still in his hand. Not bothering to get up, Jeremy flipped it open, reading the front page.
“The alleyway. Right, left, straight, left, left, right, straight, straight, left. Answer the phone.”
He scrambled up and ran to his right, stuffing the book into his back pocket as he ran through the alleyway, the wet gun in his pocket.
Right, left, straight, left, left, right…, he thought as he followed the instructions, running through the apparent maze of alleyways.
Why would the book lead him there? It didn’t do anything for him except almost place a bullet in his back. He didn’t know why it was being attacked, and didn’t care, and couldn’t see any reason for him to be involved with it in any way.
Maybe the book knew he would need a gun, so it placed him there? But what would he need a gun for? He just wanted to know who he was, nothing more. He didn’t need a gun for that. Hell, he didn’t even have a name to him. He was still just going by the name he gave himself. The last thing he needed was a gun.
He finished the instructions. He was on a sidewalk. People were walking by, doing their normal business. The clouds had lost some of their forms. A cop car sped by with its sirens, the only hint that anything big was happening just a few blocks away.
There was a tinted phone booth nearby. Jeremy pushed his way through the crowd to get inside of it, and closed the door. The phone rang immediately.
He picked it up, and before he could say hello he heard a sing-song voice on the other line.
“King Ben the Wicked” it said, the last beat trailing off into silence, only to be replaced by the sounds of gunshots and screams, the same ones he heard in the lobby of AliCorp. It too faded off, and was replaced by the dial tone.
Frustrated, Jeremy hung the phone up.
How could he have heard what just happened? It was impossible, which would mean that the call wasn’t real. And if the call wasn’t real, the book, which was connected to it, had to be false as well, which would explain how it had appeared underneath him in the water.
He pulled the book out of his back pocket, and saw that it was dry. Proof, he thought. He felt like an idiot for following it at all, he should have seen it was fake, a hallucination.
But he could still feel it. The cover was rough, like any old book, and when he flipped through the pages he could feel the breeze coming being forced out, and hear the pages flip by. Everything about it seemed real, but he knew it couldn’t be, which meant he was going crazy. His amnesia, the book, the phone call, they were all just the byproducts of his warped brain.
The massacre couldn’t have been real either, he realized, since it was connected to the hallucinated phone call and book. The gun couldn’t have been real either. Nor, he realized, was he. No one can forget their self identity, not even a crazy person. No, he could only be an imagination, something someone was playing him, dictating what scenario he will go through next.
He pulled the gun out. There was no reason for him not to. There was nothing for him left to do. Follow the book? It was fake. Everything was fake. He felt the icy metal touch his mouth, tasted the blood on the barrel of the gun, but he still didn’t believe it. He’d see how the person who invented him would like it once he blew his head off.
Check the book, his brain whispered to him. Don’t fire, check it.
As if someone else was controlling him, he put the gun away and pulled open the book.
I really am crazy, he thought as his eyes focused on the words.
The old story was back, the one from the hotel. It continued on, though, past the taxi, detailing this Jeremy going to an office building, where it was again attacked. Jeremy ran away, but didn’t grab a gun. Like before, Jeremy found no book, instead taking a random way through the alleyway. It ended with Jeremy walking down the street, and going into the alleyway again.
Not knowing what else to do other then shooting himself, Jeremy placed the book back in his pocket, and walked outside. He followed the pedestrians, and gained more then a few odd looks for being soaked with the trench water. He didn’t care what they thought. They saw him, so they also couldn’t be real. Was he real before he lost his identity? Or did he never have one, instead just being something thought up within the day?
Right when he was about to turn into the alley, a limo pulled up beside him.
“Get in,” a gruff voice commanded from the passenger’s window.
Whimsically, Jeremy entered.
There was no one else in the back seat, and the driver had the division window up, so Jeremy couldn’t even see who it was. The driver locked the doors and went back into the traffic.
He didn’t know why he had gone in. There was no reason not to, he reasoned. The book had told him to enter the alley, but the book wasn’t real, so there was no real for him to follow it. Once he was inside, he had an odd feeling that the limo ride would end it for him. Either he would get answers, which is exactly what he wanted, or they’d end him, which was just the same.
He was in the limo for over an hour. The air conditioning wasn’t on, and the sun beat down on the black limo the entire time, making the temperate unbearable. The driver never lowered the windows at all. It dried his clothes.
The car eventually pulled into a vacant, underground parking lot, no guard to block its downward ramp.
“Get out” the driver said once they had parked. Jeremy hadn’t even realized he had lowered the division window. Not knowing what else to do, Jeremy got out.
The Limo reversed out of the parking lot, leaving him alone. There were no other cars. He thought about checking the book, but decided against it. It would probably just tell him to leave.
“Ah! There you are” said a thin man who appeared out of the shadows. His black hair was combed in a professional manner, and his business suit shined with its expensiveness.
Jeremy didn’t respond. This was just another hallucination.
“I bet you have several questions,” the man said, in an almost cheerful tone, “but I’ll start with the one I’m most willing to answer. My name is Matthew Wallace. I’m CEO of AliCorp, which I saw you visited earlier today.”
“You were attacked” said Jeremy, not exactly sure why he stated it. It seemed a logical thing to respond with. He knew the man wasn’t real, but he had decided to talk to him anyways.
“I’m sorry?” asked Matthew, his eyes narrowed.
“Your business. Someone drove a car into it and started shooting people when I was there,” said Jeremy.
“Was that what you saw? Anyways, since I just left there within the half hour, I can assure you that never happened” said Matthew.
“What do you mean ‘Was that what I saw’?” asked Jeremy.
“We were monitoring you on the cameras,” explained Matthew, “you had quite an incident. Falling into the water, running like a madman, bursting through the fire exit. It took all of my power to not make the security guards take you in.”
The thought that he was being watched disturbed him. But what the man said coincided with his earlier thought. The massacre didn’t happen. Unless it did, and it was this man that had wrong. He decided to test him.
“Then how did I get this gun?” asked Jeremy, pulling out his pistol. The blood had dried in the limo ride.
Matthew gave it a glance.
“Well, I don’t know. How did you get it?” he asked, like a father would ask a child.
“One of your security officers. He was shot in the attack, and I picked it up from him.”
Matthew seemed worried by this, and held his hand out for the gun. Jeremy recoiled, and quickly placed it back in his pocket.
“I don’t know how you got it,” Matthew conceded, lowering his hand. “That’s one mystery I don’t have an answer to.”
“Well, I do know how I got it,” said Jeremy, “I got it because your place was attacked. And I know why you didn’t realize it was attacked, and that’s because you’re not real. You’re just another bloody hallucination. You’re no different then me.”
“I can assure you we are both very real,” said Matthew.
“Oh? Well if we’re real, how can you explain randomly picking me up in the middle of the street for no reason at all?” Jeremy smirked. The pompousness of the man had struck a nerve.
“I knew where you were because I placed a tracking device in the sole of your shoe,” explained Matthew. “I placed the device in your shoe because I needed to keep track of you. And I needed to keep track of you, because I did this to you.”
With that, Jeremy’s façade collapsed.
He whipped his gun out and pointed it at Matthew’s head.
“You?” asked Jeremy, staring into this strangers face. Or maybe he wasn’t a stranger. For all Jeremy knew, this could have been his best friend, his brother. The realization that he was real only made it harder to bear.
“Did you write it?” he asked, when the man didn’t answer.
“Write what?” Matthew asked, not at all disturbed at being held at gunpoint.
“The book! The one that’s been changing!” yelled Jeremy as his free hand shot into his back pocket. But the book was gone. He checked all of his pockets, moving his eyes from Matthew, who didn’t make a move.
“I did not write any book, and judging by your expression, I’d assume the book is as real as your vision of my business being assaulted,” said Matthew.
Jeremy retrained his eyes on the man.
“What did you do to me” he growled. This, all of this, had to end. He couldn’t continue like this, not for another minute, not knowing who he was, if he was even real.
“I drugged you, Mr. Reeves.” Matthew said, in a tranquil pitch.
“Reeves,” Jeremy muttered to himself, the first part of the man’s sentence blowing past him. His full name. He had to say it out loud, just to make it real, to make it trigger something.
“Jeremy Reeves,” he said allowed.
“No,” said Matthew, “not Jeremy. Benjamin. Benjamin Reeves. I don’t know where you would get Jeremy from.”
Benjamin Reeves. And to his annoyance, the name meant nothing to him. There was no revelation, no sudden rushing of memory or identity. It was just another title to use.
At least he knew it was the right one.
And then the first part of the man’s sentence registered.
“You drugged me?”
“Yes. Well, not personally,” said Matthew, “but I ordered it used on you. It was a powerful drug, designed for spies in case of capture. It was unique in what it did; A perfect ego death, the complete loss of all sense of being. It was put aside as being impractical in light of the more normal cyanide pills, but a sample of them was still kept. The amount of bribes I used to get it could have probably allowed me to add another department to my business, but oh well,” Matthew said, as if it was just nothing.
So Benjamin was definitely real. It didn’t make it any easier.
“I’d assume the hallucinations you’re having are the results of the drug. As you can tell, it’s quite powerful.” Matthew added.
“Why?”
It was all Ben could think of asking. He had thought something supernatural was at work, but it wasn’t. It was just a man, a single rich person who had done this to him.
“Why? Because, Benjamin, you were a terrible person. The experiences you had gone through had warped you into nothing more then blight on society. You were a murderer, a thief, and a rapist, who would never repent unless everything about you was washed away. And that’s what I did.”
“No.” It was his only response to what he was being told. A murderer? A rapist? No, he couldn’t be. There was no way.
“Sadly, yes,” said Matthew, “and trust me, I wish you weren’t either. When I first found out about you, I wanted you dead. I thought of finding you and having you killed, to be gutted like a fish, to be put through the agony you caused your victims. But when my private investigators gave me your file, I decided against it. I won’t tell you what you went through, for the obvious reason of possibly turning you back to that path, but I wanted you to know why I did this to you. By wiping you clean, you have a fresh start, a chance to be free of your sins.”
Benjamin still didn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true; no way could it be true. There was something else going on here, the man was lying for a reason.
“After getting the drug, I had one of my colleagues track you down to a bar, where he drank with you until you were too inebriated to walk. We forced the drug into you, rented that terrible hotel room, and placed you in it. We also placed the clothes for you, with a tracking device in those shoes. We were going to wait a while before calling you in, for you to fully develop a new personality before breaking this to you, but when you freaked out in AliCorp we had no choice but to bring you in.”
Was this some jest? Did this man just drug him for fun, and is now toying with him?
“And so that is why and how I killed you. Body wise, you’re still alive, but the man you used to be is dead. If you follow the road out of here you’ll find a black Civic parked to the right. It’s unlocked, and the keys are in the ash tray. There’s more stuff in the glove compartment. Take it, and do something useful with your life this time.” Matthew Wallace explained, but despite what he was doing he didn’t smile, he didn’t even seem to blink. His face was deadly tranquil.
“That is all I have to say. You may shoot now.”
A minute later, Benjamin started to walk up out of the lot, with no idea of what to make of what had just happened. He had killed a man, a man that had killed him and lied to him.
Matthew Wallace had deserved that bullet.
Benjamin was no thief, no rapist, no murderer.
But you just shot a man, a voice told him, but he pushed it out of his mind as he continued along the road. He spotted the black Civic soon enough, and just as Matthew said he found it unlocked. He sat inside, and opened the ashtray. True to the word, Ben found a set of keys. He left them there and moved to the glove box.
Inside was a wallet filled with cash, a cell phone, and a manila folder. He pulled them out, placing them on the passengers seat as he inspected them. The wallet was leather, rich, and was filled with money. The cell phone was powered, but had no names in it. Then he looked in the manila folder.
Staring back at him was a glaring mug shot of a man labeled Benjamin Reeves.
The papers in the folder read clear enough. Benjamin Reeves, arrested for the **** and murder of Dianna Wallace. Mistrial: Police Misconduct.
Everything came crashing down.
This could be false, he told himself, but he didn’t believe it. He was what Matthew said he had been.
He felt a lump in between him and the car seat. Reaching down, he pulled out the green, beaten book from his back pocket.
Benjamin Reeves gave one last look at the book, and then threw it out the window. His right hand started the car ignition, every action seeming to take an hour. He didn’t know what to think.
The cell phone rang. He answered it.
“I drugged you, Mr. Reeves,” said Matthew Wallace, in a sing-song voice.
