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Description
"The thing you have to remember is that you chose this, even if you can't remember it." Allen stared at the screen of himself speaking back to him as it flicked on. He tugged on the ropes binding his arms to the wall, keeping him spread eagle. The gag in his mouth effectively silenced him, made him taste saliva and bile, a haze around his head as he looked forward at the television. In the recording he looked weary, bags under his eyes, sweat on his brow, dirt and grime and blood across his skin and shirt. He didn't remember making the recording. He didn't remember anything of the past month. He could remember his name, his own self-image, even if there hadn't been a mirror behind the television set. There were stitched scars along his forehead on his reflection, his hair starting to grow back, but clearly it had been entirely shaved off at some time. Unlike the long shaggy hair in the recording, his was comprised solely of stubs. His left arm had an intravenous line running to it that snaked off into the wall with no sign of where it went beyond it. A milky fluid filled the tube, and all he felt were hornets buzzing in his head, not the raw chaffing of the ropes that rubbed his wrists and ankles, not the shorts on his waist, or the sweat trailing down his skin. Whatever was hooked up to him, he couldn't feel anything. Not physical at least. He grit his teeth, slowly starting to saw through the cloth in his mouth. The recording of his former self was wiping the sweat off its face, panting, looking about in desperate apprehension.
"You chose this Allen. Well, I did. And I'm you, or I was. I won't even know how much I'll change from all this, but, believe me, it's better than the alternative. Just... I know you're going to be confused. The operation, the drugs, it's all going to be very confusing they tell me, hence why they've asked me to make this recording for you. To help you calm down. You need to rest, you need to recuperate once they're certain you can be let down. If you don't, well... You'll put yourself back in there again, and who knows what you'll forget the next time. Just trust me. Trust yourself." Allen kept chewing, wiggling his hands and feet, blood pouring from new wounds, running down the ropes. Too much blood, but he couldn't feel it. Finally his jaw fell slack as the cloth snapped away, his neck and head quickly turning to yank the iv out of his hand. Panting, chest heaving, he hung his head and waited. Trust himself? He would have, if he had been in a normal hospital, but this place... It was more like a dungeon. The drugs that had been pumping into him were evidently low-dose, though pumped into him continuously in order to keep him calmed. Unconscious perhaps. He couldn't remember. Still, he felt himself getting more in control, gasping as the pain started to come back as well. Slipping into darkness, he slumped back against the wall, desperately hoping that he wouldn't hear the hornets again or his recording once he woke up.

"You chose this Allen. Well, I did. And I'm you, or I was." Allen awoke to his own voice and jerked his head up in confusion. Then, looking around, things came back to him. He was still bound to the wall. The recording evidently had been set to loop over and over in case he woke up. Who knows how many times it had repeated? Or how long he had been unconscious this time or the time before it? There were no windows in the room for him to even guess at how much time had passed, no clocks, nothing but the television set, the ropes that held him, the cloth gag resting on his neck as it had split, the iv line on the wall near his arm, the light on the ceiling, the mirror beyond the television set. Not even a visible door. He could focus more now, still in pain, but it wasn't as strong as it had been when the drug first wore off. He could bear it now. His blood had run further along his arm and the wall and onto the floor, but it had stopped and dried, so it had been a while at least, and he hadn't bled out. And no one had come in to check on him it seemed. Either that or they didn't care about the gag being broken or the iv line being pulled out. Maybe it was meant to make him think he was safe, relax, try to rest up. He didn't know and he didn't care. He didn't trust his lack of memory. He didn't trust the clear fear in his recorded self. Was he coerced? Or was there something else dangerous nearby? Still, he'd rather find out than remain on the wall. Grunting, he turned his head to his left arm and started chewing on the rope.

He couldn't tell how much time it had taken in total, but it felt like an eternity. Once his left arm was freed he had set about getting his right loose as well with both his teeth and hand. His fingernails cracked and bled like each of his wrists, but finally he had both free. He fell forward, barely putting out his hands to keep his face from colliding with the stone floor. Still, his forehead crashed into it and he felt himself slipping away again.

The recording was still going when he woke up again, and the sensation of the cold stone on his skin shocked him into remembering where he was instead of trying to rise up. Crawling backward on his hands, he crouched and started on the ropes binding his ankles to the wall. They had evidently been made loose enough to have let him fall, but were still too tight for him to just slip out of them. Again, he worked at rope and bled, but soon was free to stand on two shaking, weary legs. He moved to the television set and turned it off, cutting himself off in mid-sentence. He didn't need to hear himself telling him to trust himself again. He trusted who he used to be before his memory gap, and that alone told him that he was never one to give up easily. Slowly he moved to the mirror, feet shuffling on the floor as they were too strained from even holding him up to lift. It was the only thing on the wall that looked like it could hide a door behind it, unless it was seamless. He lifted it off the wall and found nothing but more stone behind it. Clenching his teeth, he put it down on the wall a few feet to the side, pushing on the wall and finding only the resistance of granite. Slowly, panting and weary, he circled the room in this manner, pressed his feet firmly against the floor and found nothing but more frustration. The ceiling itself was too high to have jumped up to, and the only thing the light revealed was more stone. But someone had to have tied him up to the wall, had to insert the iv, had to close a door behind him. There had to be an exit, but he couldn't find it. In a fit of rage his lashed a fist at the mirror as it slanted against the wall. It passed through as if it were a pond of lies and silver.

Gulping, he rubbed his upper arms as the chill beyond the mirror's portal ebbed at his waning strength. It was a maze of reflections and distortions, nothing that seemed right to his mind. Torturous ruination lay in the background of his twisted reflections, all of them seeming desperate to take his place along the corridors if their bound forms had the opportunity, but none seemed to be looking at him, only their reflections and that their own mirror showed behind them. His breath hung in the air, frosted the edges of the mirrors he passed close to. The only reflection devoid of any version of himself was the one he had passed through what felt like an hour ago. Still he kept moving, seeking the right portal, an escape. Finally he came to a mirror with no reflection in it at all. Light glared down from the ceiling accusative at its surface, but the darkened silver and glass seemed to consume it and leave utter mystery behind. The hall stretched on further than he could see to his right and his left, but somehow he knew this was the one. He didn't know how, but he did. He put his hand to it, and passed through to the other side.

Fire blazed distant falling trees and buildings alike further down a slope. Figures of miasma incarnate lashed out at each other and split the earth, rent each other limb from limb and yet they grew back each and kept fighting. He turned back to the darkened mirror and saw himself again, a score of sigils and runes, lines and eldritch markings on his body. The wall behind the mirror was awash in blood, repeating over and over like a mantra, "Trust yourself". Looking back to the mirror again, he gripped it tight and hugged his reflection to himself. The mirror's surface did not shatter, but poured out onto him, distortion becoming truth, his body changing to match what it had shown. Putting the mirror back it was bright silver again, reflecting how he was now, in this realm. And he remembered. He had made this choice, had taken this circuitous route and buried his secrets within different versions of himself, had immersed himself in their lives and lies and exceeded them. Had exceeded himself. Power coursing through his veins, he started down the slope toward the terrors he had long feared but now had the might to withstand. Stretching out a hand, their forms gave way from shadow to gray, to ash, to dust, leaving only what lay beneath. Two forms slowly stirred and blinked in confusion, rising up and staring at him, freed from the parasites that had controlled them for so long. He gave a wane smile before clutching his brothers in his arms. The triplets wailed in joy and regret, as all three now remembered all that had transpired over the last decade, and over more lives and lies than anyone could count.

Description
"The thing you have to remember is that you chose this, even if you can't remember it." Allen stared at the screen of himself speaking back to him as it flicked on. He tugged on the ropes binding his arms to the wall, keeping him spread eagle. The gag in his mouth effectively silenced him, made him taste saliva and bile, a haze around his head as he looked forward at the television. In the recording he looked weary, bags under his eyes, sweat on his brow, dirt and grime and blood across his skin and shirt. He didn't remember making the recording. He didn't remember anything of the past month. He could remember his name, his own self-image, even if there hadn't been a mirror behind the television set. There were stitched scars along his forehead on his reflection, his hair starting to grow back, but clearly it had been entirely shaved off at some time. Unlike the long shaggy hair in the recording, his was comprised solely of stubs. His left arm had an intravenous line running to it that snaked off into the wall with no sign of where it went beyond it. A milky fluid filled the tube, and all he felt were hornets buzzing in his head, not the raw chaffing of the ropes that rubbed his wrists and ankles, not the shorts on his waist, or the sweat trailing down his skin. Whatever was hooked up to him, he couldn't feel anything. Not physical at least. He grit his teeth, slowly starting to saw through the cloth in his mouth. The recording of his former self was wiping the sweat off its face, panting, looking about in desperate apprehension.
"You chose this Allen. Well, I did. And I'm you, or I was. I won't even know how much I'll change from all this, but, believe me, it's better than the alternative. Just... I know you're going to be confused. The operation, the drugs, it's all going to be very confusing they tell me, hence why they've asked me to make this recording for you. To help you calm down. You need to rest, you need to recuperate once they're certain you can be let down. If you don't, well... You'll put yourself back in there again, and who knows what you'll forget the next time. Just trust me. Trust yourself." Allen kept chewing, wiggling his hands and feet, blood pouring from new wounds, running down the ropes. Too much blood, but he couldn't feel it. Finally his jaw fell slack as the cloth snapped away, his neck and head quickly turning to yank the iv out of his hand. Panting, chest heaving, he hung his head and waited. Trust himself? He would have, if he had been in a normal hospital, but this place... It was more like a dungeon. The drugs that had been pumping into him were evidently low-dose, though pumped into him continuously in order to keep him calmed. Unconscious perhaps. He couldn't remember. Still, he felt himself getting more in control, gasping as the pain started to come back as well. Slipping into darkness, he slumped back against the wall, desperately hoping that he wouldn't hear the hornets again or his recording once he woke up.

"You chose this Allen. Well, I did. And I'm you, or I was." Allen awoke to his own voice and jerked his head up in confusion. Then, looking around, things came back to him. He was still bound to the wall. The recording evidently had been set to loop over and over in case he woke up. Who knows how many times it had repeated? Or how long he had been unconscious this time or the time before it? There were no windows in the room for him to even guess at how much time had passed, no clocks, nothing but the television set, the ropes that held him, the cloth gag resting on his neck as it had split, the iv line on the wall near his arm, the light on the ceiling, the mirror beyond the television set. Not even a visible door. He could focus more now, still in pain, but it wasn't as strong as it had been when the drug first wore off. He could bear it now. His blood had run further along his arm and the wall and onto the floor, but it had stopped and dried, so it had been a while at least, and he hadn't bled out. And no one had come in to check on him it seemed. Either that or they didn't care about the gag being broken or the iv line being pulled out. Maybe it was meant to make him think he was safe, relax, try to rest up. He didn't know and he didn't care. He didn't trust his lack of memory. He didn't trust the clear fear in his recorded self. Was he coerced? Or was there something else dangerous nearby? Still, he'd rather find out than remain on the wall. Grunting, he turned his head to his left arm and started chewing on the rope.

He couldn't tell how much time it had taken in total, but it felt like an eternity. Once his left arm was freed he had set about getting his right loose as well with both his teeth and hand. His fingernails cracked and bled like each of his wrists, but finally he had both free. He fell forward, barely putting out his hands to keep his face from colliding with the stone floor. Still, his forehead crashed into it and he felt himself slipping away again.

The recording was still going when he woke up again, and the sensation of the cold stone on his skin shocked him into remembering where he was instead of trying to rise up. Crawling backward on his hands, he crouched and started on the ropes binding his ankles to the wall. They had evidently been made loose enough to have let him fall, but were still too tight for him to just slip out of them. Again, he worked at rope and bled, but soon was free to stand on two shaking, weary legs. He moved to the television set and turned it off, cutting himself off in mid-sentence. He didn't need to hear himself telling him to trust himself again. He trusted who he used to be before his memory gap, and that alone told him that he was never one to give up easily. Slowly he moved to the mirror, feet shuffling on the floor as they were too strained from even holding him up to lift. It was the only thing on the wall that looked like it could hide a door behind it, unless it was seamless. He lifted it off the wall and found nothing but more stone behind it. Clenching his teeth, he put it down on the wall a few feet to the side, pushing on the wall and finding only the resistance of granite. Slowly, panting and weary, he circled the room in this manner, pressed his feet firmly against the floor and found nothing but more frustration. The ceiling itself was too high to have jumped up to, and the only thing the light revealed was more stone. But someone had to have tied him up to the wall, had to insert the iv, had to close a door behind him. There had to be an exit, but he couldn't find it. In a fit of rage his lashed a fist at the mirror as it slanted against the wall. It passed through as if it were a pond of lies and silver.

Gulping, he rubbed his upper arms as the chill beyond the mirror's portal ebbed at his waning strength. It was a maze of reflections and distortions, nothing that seemed right to his mind. Torturous ruination lay in the background of his twisted reflections, all of them seeming desperate to take his place along the corridors if their bound forms had the opportunity, but none seemed to be looking at him, only their reflections and that their own mirror showed behind them. His breath hung in the air, frosted the edges of the mirrors he passed close to. The only reflection devoid of any version of himself was the one he had passed through what felt like an hour ago. Still he kept moving, seeking the right portal, an escape. Finally he came to a mirror with no reflection in it at all. Light glared down from the ceiling accusative at its surface, but the darkened silver and glass seemed to consume it and leave utter mystery behind. The hall stretched on further than he could see to his right and his left, but somehow he knew this was the one. He didn't know how, but he did. He put his hand to it, and passed through to the other side.

Fire blazed distant falling trees and buildings alike further down a slope. Figures of miasma incarnate lashed out at each other and split the earth, rent each other limb from limb and yet they grew back each and kept fighting. He turned back to the darkened mirror and saw himself again, a score of sigils and runes, lines and eldritch markings on his body. The wall behind the mirror was awash in blood, repeating over and over like a mantra, "Trust yourself". Looking back to the mirror again, he gripped it tight and hugged his reflection to himself. The mirror's surface did not shatter, but poured out onto him, distortion becoming truth, his body changing to match what it had shown. Putting the mirror back it was bright silver again, reflecting how he was now, in this realm. And he remembered. He had made this choice, had taken this circuitous route and buried his secrets within different versions of himself, had immersed himself in their lives and lies and exceeded them. Had exceeded himself. Power coursing through his veins, he started down the slope toward the terrors he had long feared but now had the might to withstand. Stretching out a hand, their forms gave way from shadow to gray, to ash, to dust, leaving only what lay beneath. Two forms slowly stirred and blinked in confusion, rising up and staring at him, freed from the parasites that had controlled them for so long. He gave a wane smile before clutching his brothers in his arms. The triplets wailed in joy and regret, as all three now remembered all that had transpired over the last decade, and over more lives and lies than anyone could count.