Author's Note: So I said I wouldn't post this here. Whatever.

Warnings: Swearing I think

Disclaimer: I disclaim my use of everything, including all ideas drawn from Alex Bell's 'The Ninth Circle'

May 24th

I opened my eyes on the dot of 5.30am. I did not sleep well last night. I was afraid that if I fell asleep I might wake up without my memories again, that I would have not only forgotten my entire experience of life up until yesterday but also that very same yesterday and all my efforts to discover myself, my name, my face, everything. What if I had woken up in the same place? I would have to un-stick my face from the floorboards again, roam around leaving bloody footprints behind me, only to discover my gruesome reflection and then panic when I can't find any toothpaste.

But all is well, for the moment at least. Well, temporarily. I felt magnificently better when I groggily woke up to the sounds of sparse morning traffic on the streets far below my open window and birds twittering as they flitted about in the air outside the window. I wasn't on the floorboards of my dingy lounge with my face glued down with my own blood, nor was I dressed in that gaudy purple suit and oily make-up. I had fallen asleep comfortably naked in my bed, a wonky-framed, unsteady small double bed to be exact. I wrinkled my nose at the musty stench of slumber, tossed the thin (blood and cum stained, I noticed) sheets aside. I welcomed the breeze wafting through my window. I blinked in confusion; I didn't remember opening the window but that didn't really bother me; I don't really seem to remember a whole lot of things at all. My life began yesterday.

I shuddered through a stifling yawn and staggered into my small, grimy bathroom. The complaints from my bladder cheered me somewhat, they further reinforced the conclusion that I had drawn yesterday, that I was human. I'm a human called Jack Tanner and I need to take a piss. Remembering my name so easily as I relieved myself made me smile at the gritty tiled wall above the cistern. The scarred corners of my mouth curled from the smile into disgust when I saw black mould flourishing along the grouting. I will have to buy something to clean that off. I will have to buy something to clean me off as well; the dry, cracked bar of soap I found yesterday didn't seem to do a lot at all. Yes. I will have to go shopping today.

When I stepped back to clean my hands and splash my face with cold water I caught sight of the clothes I had been wearing when I woke up yesterday, dumped in the corner and subconsciously avoided like the corpse of a rat. I faltered, some water dripping off the end of my nose and some nestling in my eyelashes. I didn't really know what to do with them or the hoard of knives stashed in the pockets and lining. If I had gone to a fancy-dress party then perhaps I hired the suit? I bit my lip; the suit was covered in blood now. From the murky depths of my mind I knew that blood was a terrible stain to remove from clothing. Maybe I should just throw the suit away? I stalked over and stooped to pick up the large, purple jacket. The knives clanked menacingly. What should I do with them? If I throw the suit away I can't very well throw the knives out with it.

One by one I removed them, entering the bedroom and placing them methodically, almost obsessively in a neat, size-graded row along the table at the end of the bed, lined up perfectly with the side of that password-protected laptop. I put the largest knife next to the laptop but I ran out of table-space before I even got round to the small vegetable knives and potato peelers. I faltered for a moment, chewing on my scarred, lower lip. I grimaced at the bobbly texture as I decided to start a second row below the first one. It nearly matched the first row in length before I got to the pizza wheel, which looked terribly out of place no matter where I placed it and how I positioned it. I felt strange that this irked me so horridly. Why can't the pizza wheel fit in with the rest of the knives? It is an outcast, a misfit that stands out like a fat man in Auschwitz. Agitated I just put it on the end by the last and smallest potato peeler and tried not to look at it. What on earth would I be doing with all these things? Pockets filled with blades – why, I must be a chef or something.

I sighed and rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes. I decided that it would do me no good to neurotically ponder this, no more good than panicking would do me, but unlike the panicking the neurotic pondering was not so easily abolished from my mind. It was not as steadfast a belief. I shook my head and rounded upon the wardrobe at the end of the room. I opened it up and hoped I would find a better taste in clothing than purple jackets and green waistcoats. There was a sizeable collection of clothes, though the taste in fashion seemed strangely varied. I felt my heart grow cold a few times as I rifled through them, finding several garments that were marred with old, brown blood. I tried not to think of the knives on the table behind me.

I tried on a few things and although I managed to get into everything that I picked out nothing seemed to be the same size. Some things were far too big for me; it was as if none of these clothes actually belonged to me. I scowled blackly at the contents of the wardrobe. Of course, I haven't actually determined whether this is my house or not. I cricked some stiffness from my neck. Then again, if this was the home of someone else would they have not returned by now, especially with such an expensive laptop and mobile phone left here? I decided not to panic but couldn't stop wondering. I need to re-scour the house for proof of whether I live here or not, everyone gets bills and letters from the taxman, right?

I think I tried on nearly everything save for the blood-stained items and eventually settled for some faded, paint-dripped jeans which fit the best of all the trousers in the wardrobe and a long-sleeved tee which looked as though it might have been black once, but had faded to a ghastly looking greenish-grey. Holes had appeared at the seams in the neck and the elbows had worn away, leaving large, thread-bare holes. The cuffs looked chewed.

Sighing, I gazed into that long mirror on the wall where I had first discovered myself, bloodied and dressed-up like a nightmarish mobster clown. I shuddered when I remembered the image of the panda eye-sockets and the red lipstick smeared over the scar on my cheek. My long, bony hands snaked their way up to my face, the rough pads of their fingertips ghosting over those lumpy disfigurements. I poked my finger into the star shape on my left cheek and met the intrusion from the inside with my tongue. Fingertip and tongue kissed idly through the wall of my cheek, exploring every facet of my blemish. As they danced the index and middle finger of my other hand had been tracing back and forth along the plunging arc of my other scar, a smoother and cleaner cut. I had been doing this for a couple of minutes before I realised that my tongue had been periodically darting out of my mouth, coiling around the corners of my lips. And old reflex from the healing period I presumed in order to calm myself at the disturbing sight of my subconscious habit, but still, my reflection was beginning to haunt me, even without the blood and make-up.

Dismissing my disturbances I clenched my teeth and grabbed a thick woolen hat and pulled it over my scalp to hide my disgracefully filthy hair, the grease barely shifted by that weak bar of soap. However I was at least contented that I looked ten times more normal than I had yesterday. I moved through the house, a strange tingling in my skin at the thought that I was going to get out of this den and into the world just like a normal person. A normal person, albeit greasy and scarred, called Jack Tanner. My mouth smiled a little when I managed to pluck my name from my memory as easily as plucking a dead leaf from my shoulder. As I loomed towards the front door, my hand outstretched and hovering over the door handle, I realised something. How stupid of me to forget, how could I forget? I have no money! I recoiled from the front door as though it had offended me, glaring at the knots and lines in the cheap veneer.

No money! I snarled at my stupidity.

May 25th

5.30am on the dot, it's strange that I have woken up at this time two days straight despite the fact that the flickering digital clock does not sound an alarm for me.

I frightened myself yesterday. After I realised that I had nearly stepped out of the door to go shopping without even considering whether I had any money or not, I had grown inexplicably furious. An alien rage and scorn for my lack of thought had slowly simmered within the deep confines of my ribcage until it had bubbled through the gaps, melting through my intercostals and sizzling through my skin to the surface. I remember spitting and growling in the most animalistic manner. I dived upon my twin row of knives and flung them around with a terrifying skill, a skill drawn from somewhere inside me that I didn't know existed. The blades sliced through the air neatly. I embedded a few into the peeling wallpaper on the other side of the room above my bed and stabbed one of my pillows repeatedly with a potato peeler in each hand, shouting 'fucking, fucking little fucker!' as I did so. I spat on the pillow and ripped it in half with my hands, a cloud of feathers exploding over everything. I accidentally inhaled a mouthful. I think it was my choking and coughing and the thought that I would be killed by the innards of a pillow that brought me back into a saner state of mind.

I stayed hunched over on all fours for a while, spluttering and snorting, spitting feathers over my floorboards. My name is Jack Tanner and I was nearly killed by pillow feathers. I guess some mothers do have them.

After my disconcerting outburst I somehow found myself standing before my mirror once more, something lackluster about my posture and expression. I had felt stifled, the stench of my rage still hung in the air around me like fading noxious fumes, I felt like I couldn't breath. I peeled my clothes off as if they were made of melting plastic. And there I was, only myself and my reflection in the room together, nude and confused. I stared deeply into my eyes. They were a dull like mud and so dark and blank - I think someone has sucked out the middle of my eyes and left a gaping vacuum behind. I think they might have accidentally sucked my soul out whilst they were at it.

I knew I was human, but was I a person? I don't know how to find out if I am a person. I know what type of humans aren't people, the kind who love nothing and care for nothing, the apathetic kind who have zero empathy, the kind fit for murder and terrorism. These un-people don't seem to have too much in common with me… but how would I know…? I, a man who looks no more than twenty-eight years of age, have only known myself for mere days. I woke up wrapped in blood and knives. My face was painted. Was it a disguise, am I criminal in hiding? If I had really gone to a fancy-dress party that would suggest I had friends. No one had knocked on my door or rang me on my empty mobile phone. If I have friends wouldn't they have come to jeer at my hangover and laugh about our drunken hilarities?

I swooped from stifling to cold. I had gooseflesh. I think I might be a bad person.

I leant down and took the pizza wheel from the floor where I had knocked it with trembling fingers. I didn't even notice how dirty and horrid my long, cracked nails were, I felt like I didn't care. I forgot about the aching scab on my forehead, the grease in my hair, my stink and my scars. I turned back to the mirror and moved closer, staring at myself. I was covered in scars. I was just one big, walking scar. Some were barely noticeable, just faint, silvery spiderwebs over my skin and some were deep, the tissue raised and puckered. I'm hideous. With the pizza wheel I lightly traced a track over every scar that I could find, running the not-so-sharp blade back and forth over each one until I had adequately investigated and catalogued it into my near-empty memory bank. What can a human be if he doesn't know himself? Once I know myself I can find myself. I hope I'm not a bad person.

The scattered knives and blood-stained clothes in the wardrobe cast doubts over my mind.

But that was yesterday, and I had traced all my scars over and over until the sun was long gone. Still nude I pulled my window to and clambered into my bed, sweeping the loose feathers away. When I woke my window was wide open again. It worried me somewhat, though perhaps it is just the wind – maybe I sleep walk?

This morning I pulled on the clothes I had chosen for myself yesterday and moved into the kitchen. I thought of looking into the lounge for more clues about myself but the contents of the room were minimal, there wasn't even a bookcase. There were plentiful cupboards and drawers in the kitchen and I set about searching each one.

As I rummaged around I realised that I had eaten nothing since that day I woke on the floor, nothing except that delightful bauble of milk chocolate Lindt which I had found in my pocket. I had come across an unexpectedly large supply of these chocolates in one of the top cupboards, eight boxes in fact and all different flavours, coloured correspondingly. I surprised myself. Bad people don't eat or enjoy nice food, do they? Serial killers and terrorists don't indulge themselves with such blissful treats… I took each box down and arranged them on the side. Red for milk chocolate, brown for hazelnut, blue for dark chocolate, purple for amaretto, green for mint (I immediately took two and ate them), orange for peanut butter, pink-red for raspberry (I ate one of those, too) and pale yellow for white chocolate. Yes, I really surprised myself. I selected a few more, resolutely ignoring the amaretto and peanut butter ones and put the boxes back in the cupboard where I had found them.

Asides from the Lindt there was very little else to be consumed. Mustard powder, some bottled sauces, a very old, stale looking wine, an onion which had overgrown itself with shoots having been left alone for so long, a jar of something that had developed fluffy mould and an empty packet of breadsticks. I grimaced. I was beginning to feel very hungry indeed. I had a terrible, bizarre craving for red meat, I want a fat steak, rare as you like. I clenched my fists, those nails digging into my palms.

I hunted around some more and found something almost as exciting as food, a drawer stuffed full of papers. I grabbed handfuls of them and pulled them out onto the side feeling quite giddy with glee, huge stacks of what I hoped to be more clues to who I am! I flicked through them. I almost choked when I thought I had just found more blank, lined paper but soon I began to see things written on the paper; doodles and cramped, rushed notes. There were peculiar blueprints but these didn't interest me, I cast them aside and concentrated on the notes. There were reams and reams of them, all stapled together. I couldn't read the writing so well but the little hasty diagrams that accompanied the writing on every other page fascinated me. Whoever had written this had a wild imagination, he had doodled the strangest looking tank I've ever seen, at least that's what the writer refers to the vehicle as. He had labeled it 'Tank, aka TUMBLER'. The drawing is smudged.

I flicked through some more pages - he had drawn what seemed to be a motorbike version of 'The Tumbler' and labeled it 'Bike, aka BATPOD'. I laughed to myself; this guy had a wonderful mind. I began to decipher some of the notes, squinting my way through the excruciating detail, lapping up the entertainingly fanciful twaddle. He writes about a figure called The Batman, a notorious and hellish character who dresses in bat-like armour and swoops over Gotham with the aid of a cape made from strange material, spreading out behind him like a midnight hand-glider. His nemesis is The Joker, a character who the writer seems to favour and writes about in a purer light. I scanned madly through the notes, gripped by the fantastical nonsense. Before I could turn to the next page however I had leant onto the side, slipped and a flurry of paper littered the kitchen floor. My snarl stumbled over itself and turned into a choked gasp – I saw money on the floor, poking coyly up at me from underneath the other papers. I dived for the notes, scrabbling to collect them all until I came across the envelope they had been stashed in. I peered inside.

Oh my… I have a lot of cash. When I felt myself beginning to doubt where on earth this money had come from – there was an excess of several thousand I estimated – I blocked it from my mind and stuffed handfuls into my pockets, grinning madly.

My name is Jack Tanner, I have a lot of money and I'm going shopping. I will write about my adventures outside of the den when I return.

Author's Note: REVIEWS PLZ. I am holding this mofo at ransom, because I'm like that. You won't get part 3, which is already written, until I have a total of 20 reviews for this fic. I'll probably change my mind later and post the next chapter even if this doesn't hit a scant 10 reviews but... let's see if you can actually do it :3