Your name is John Egbert. That's what they all told you, anyway. Your friends, of whom you seem to have very many, tried for years to get you to remember them and whatever adventures you happened to go through. They tell you that you helped create this world that you now walk through, wondering what exactly happened during the first 16 years of life. They used terms and names, related information about all sorts of nigh-unbelievable happenings. If it wasn't for their persistence in perpetuating these scenarios, you might have long abandoned any shred of belief towards their stories. That and the occasional hazy flashbacks, dreams, and nightmares that seem so lucid, yet turn to a light mist in the deep peripheries of your consciousness the second you attempt to grab them.
You spend your days at your house, sometimes being visited by a handful of your supposedly closest friends. They come to check in on you, but you feel they only do so out of some misplaced obligation. They all have partners already and as the years passed, their visits became sparser and sparser. It's your own fault. You drove them away with your frustrations from their incessant pestering and meddling when it came to your clearly irreparable memory.
They told you all manner of things, but the one thing you really wanted to know, the one thing that really stuck with you through it all, they never wanted to tell you. They said they didn't know, that it was probably irrelevant, but you could tell from their shifting gazes and quick topic changes that they just didn't want to tell you.
For some reason, you have had a fascination with spiders ever since you woke up on this planet, surrounded by a bunch of strangers. They remind you of something. Or someone...? You're not quite sure, but you know it's important. A name almost surfaces, but always gets dragged back down.
Sometimes you twirl the D8's you found in your pockets and almost remember things, but as with every other memory, it quickly dissip8s. You mean dissipates.
You try and try and every attempt is followed by a failure more disheartening than the last. You get angry at yourself. If this something is so important, then why can't you remem8er?
You chuck the die across the room and make no attempt to see what number fate has decided for you. Instead, you look to the corner of the ceiling in your small apartment. A single spiderweb hangs there, seemingly barren. You have made no attempts to clean it and, in fact, have prevented any of your friends from clearing it away. You don't remember how long it has been there, but you let it stay. It gives you comfort, like a guardian angel looking out for you. You are almost certain whatever spider made it is long since dead, however.
But then you see it. A small spider crawls into view on the web. You stare at it intently, focusing as hard as you can. You want to imagine that the spider is staring back at you, but you feel ridiculous thinking so. But at the same time, you can't help but think that is exactly what is happening.
Vriska.
You remember the name but can't quite place where from. You tell yourself that this is the spider's name.
"Hello, Vriska.," you say to the spider.
It doesn't respond, obviously. Being a spider and all.
"Are you watching over me?"
No response.
"Thank you."
The name is of great significance to you, that much you know. Perhaps the name of someone who meant a whole lot to you. That's how you feel, anyway.
And though you don't know why, you feel that whoever Vriska is, or was, maybe he or she is here now, with you. Yes, you definitely know that. Vriska will be with you always, looking out for you, even if you never remem8er her.
