Why do I do this to myself? I already have stories and in hiatus otherwise abandoned, why a another? Because the idea is stuck in my head and I just need to write it.
Yes, this is a another story. It was rattling around in my head and it refused to go away until I wrote something out! I blame the Plot bunnies in me for making me write this in the midst of the upcoming Exam. Wish there was a better way of describing a story about a person being sent into a fictional/parallel world, with the knowledge that is was a fictional/another world than 'SI'. I already gave up on writing stories if it's going to be left out but... ARGGGH!
anyway.
This is not really an SI. More of a person from our/another world thrown into a world we know is not real and is self aware of that rather than an author writing themselves into a story. If anyone has any other way to describe this, let me know.
Now onto the new story!
Ps: You might find the Prologue suspicious like, what do you mean knowledge or awareness of the story? he's amnesiac!
DISCLAIMER: The following Contents is fanfiction and non-profit for the sake of entertainment, you might even argue about etc Etcetera so I'm telling you in advance that whatever contents in here isn't canonical (Duh, butter flies goes brrr) and I'll try my best to stick to it until the ripples escalate. English isn't my Native please be warned that I suck.
Slowly, cautiously, The man (Teenager) opened his eyes – and couldn't help a gasp.
Sprawled on the floor was another man, with eyes wide open, blood dripping from his head and tinting his face a vivid, sickening shade of crimson; a corpse, he doesn't recognized. George stared, unable to tear his gaze away, a powerful and morbid trance holding him in place.
It lifted the moment he averted his eyes around the surroundings, the room is squared with four vertex. With walls of concrete and a light bulb above him illuminating the environment with bright light.
Nearby, a lone table with another corpse can be seen, another man. But one without visible injuries, pale and is malnourished to the point his ribcage is visible.
With a creek, he stood over the wooden floor with narrowed eyes. Too wary and fearful for his wellbeing which made his movements stiff and slow.
Moments went by before he finally let every last of his muscles relax, only now realizing how tense his entire body had been. As the adrenaline receded, his self-awareness seemed to skyrocket: he was violently shaking, his breathing irregular, and every inch of his skin drenched in sweat. Then, without warning, his legs gave out under his weight and he collapsed back to his knees. Albeit with little to no sound, as if his body subconsciously ordering itself to be inconspicuous as possible.
Panting heavily, he cast a glance over his shoulder at the right side of the room, one riddled with a bullet holes, blood and grime; much too close to his body. Thanks to his shove, the double's aim had been thrown off,
he realized wryly: What shove?
Scratch that, what's going on? Where is he? And why is his memories' jumbled?
Whatever reasoning preoccupied his mind before was gone, (not really.) As he realized that... he couldn't remember his identity... or history.
He pushed himself up and got to his feet, but he felt so light and hollow that he nearly overbalanced.
He stumbled and threw up his breakfast, or lack thereof nearby, his mind is currently jumbled and his vision is a bit woozy.
Looking around, he saw very bright light reflecting off of placid blood.
Who am I?
Half-formed images danced in his mind's eye like the vanishing details of a dream. Places without meaning, rooms with no features, people with blurred faces, haphazard dark hands over him and a blur hitting him. Hecouldn't remember.He didn't even knowwhyhe couldn't remember.
He had a name. For fuck's sake, hehadto know his own name!
He tried to recall it, but failed. There were no connections or associations for him to seize on and follow. Everything in his head was unmoored, disconnected from everything else. He couldn't remember his name because he couldn't remember any distinct experiences before waking up here, let alone anyone calling him by it.
A shiver of pure dread raced through his entire body. Some instinctive part of him recoiled so strongly at this feeling of panicked helplessness that he nearly gagged.
No. This couldn't be happening, he couldn'tletthis happen. It had to be drugs or something, clouding his mind, making him forget. His memories must still be there, since he could sort offeelwhere they should be, he just couldn't grasp the details. This was no time to panic, that would only make his mental disarray worse.
If only he couldfocus. It was so hard to think straight with his body practically swimming in strange sensations, particularly that sharp, aching hunger clawing at his stomach, the spike of adrenaline and fear creeping into him. He had to push those aside.
He needed to work his way back to some kind of logic. If he could use that to fill in the gaps, then maybe he could make a connection that jogged his memory.
First things first: it was obvious that his mind wasn't completely gone. Looking around, he wasn'tconfusedby anything he saw, unlike stroke victims. He could recognize the concrete and corpse and so on for what it was, and he was lucid enough to keep track of his train of thought, though his hunger, synesthesia, and general unease were a constant background distraction. He knew that this phenomenon he was experiencing was called 'amnesia,' just like he implicitly knew without prompting that the language he spoke/monologue was English. The problem was that he couldn't track that knowledge back to any experiences. It was like the threads connecting the ideas to their sources had all been cut.
For some reason that he couldn't identify, just the termamnesiaset off alarm bells of incredulity and skepticism, like it was some sort of contrived pseudoscience. It was beyond frustrating—he was getting these nebulous feelings and associations, but he didn't have the slightest idea where he'd gotten them, or how reliable his feelings were. They just popped into his head, fully comprehensible, but seemingly out of nowhere.
Despite his skepticism, he had a contradictory instinct, a strange certainty that amnesia was actually a real thing—as if experiencing it for himself wasn't enough to prove that. Did that imply it was rare? How did amnesiawork,anyway? Was it permanent?
Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he was pretty sure that amnesia wasn't permanent, or at least it wasn'talways permanent. It was impossible to tell, so he really had no choice but to trust his intuition.
Clearly, he was suffering from... re... retrograde amnesia, that affects his episodic memory. At least his semantic memory was intact enough to remember things like that worthless bit of trivia, not that being able to put a label on his problem helped him to solve it in any way. He needed todosomething.
How would someone go about finding their identity? Just go find the nearest person and ask them for help? Hell no. He might as well draw up a sign sayingI am vulnerable to any would be killers in this place, please take advantage of me.Fuck that.
Then the obvious answer came to him, and he felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. He brought his full attention to the sensation of a lump resting in his left front pocket. He'd been subconsciously aware of it all along, but in his addled state, he hadn't connected that to his problem.
Feeling around at the weight in his pocket, he felt a thrill of triumph as he withdrew a folded square of leather. A wallet.Of coursethat should be the first place to look if you couldn't remember who you were. People kept their IDs in their wallets, right?
Itfeltright, at least.
He approached the entrance of the room, sneaking as quietly as he could.
Checking over the wooden door, he glanced at the tempting knob but otherwise refused to alert the people outside, if there's even one out there. The silence was a dead give away but he refuse to move out without checking for more clue in this room.
As he wandered around for more clues of his whereabouts, something odd caught his attention. The front of his shirt felt sticky and stiff, and there was still that completely nonsensical feeling of something that sort of tasted coppery resting on his chest and stomach. He looked down, and nearly jumped out of his skin at what he saw.
His... rather questionable and messy suit were left unzipped, and under that was a formerly-white button-up dress shirt. Two layers of clothing weredrenchedin tacky, half-congealed blood.
He froze for a moment, staring at it in disbelief, then frantically unbuttoned the shirt, checking himself for injury, even though nothing felt amiss. Opening his shirt proved that this was indeed the case. His blood-smeared torso didn't even have a single cut.
But the tattered and filled with holes suggested otherwise... was it not his blood? Wait, was this the blood of others...?
Surely not his 'partner' at the floor, he was sure that he didn't touched the corpse and...
That's... that's...
Does that mean he's a murderer? A murder who is drenched by the blood of his victim before he loss his memories?
No, don't needlessly draw half-ass conclusions. But he couldn't conjure any rational and plausible ones.
He hastily zipped up his black suit, jacket or hoodie-- whatever to hide the bloodstains, which weren't as visible on the black linens, or cotton from what it felt...
And he had only one appropriate reaction.
Holyshit, that's definitely someone else's blood. It was way too fresh and warm, and he would have noticed any cuts elsewhere on his body with his bizarrely keen proprioception.
What the hell was going on?
His eyes drifted at the corpses in the table and into the floor, dismissing the former due to his body condition. He checked over the corpse and realized that this one is far too cold. And dipping his finger isn't any better as its cold temperature chilled his index, slowly taking it out and rub it at the corpses shirt to clean his marred finger.
He theorized that this one isn't so fresh after all, that means the owner of the blood was outside, not in the inside.
What happened? Had he assaulted someone, killed someone? Surely no one was likely to survive losing that much blood. And then what, had he stolen their shirt? What possible reason would anyone have to do that? The only reason he could think of to take the bloodied shirt from a body was so that he could play dead during some sort of mass shooting or killing rampage. The problem with that notion was that it made no sense whatsoever given his surroundings, and even in a morbe likely location, it would still be far-fetched.
He had been jumpy before, but now he was on the verge of outright panic. He needed to get the hell out of this room, find somewhere to regroup, get replacements for the ruined clothes that could only be interpreted as some kind of incriminating evidence, and figure this whole situation out. To hell with the introspection of his existence, he needs to remove any elements that would harm his well being or something that would cause of his future first.
Running away is seemingly a good Idea if he's a murderer.
But first things first: he needed to take stock of his resources.
Returning his attention to his wallet, he opened it up. An identification card of a school or some sort, sat in a little laminated pocket on the left, and the picture showed a clean-shaven white man with black, wavy hair that was neatly combed back. The card read Taylor Hebert, with a date stamped in serial numbers, looking over the other paper which seem to be his Health insurance. he connects the dots which revealed that he's 15 years old.
A bit suspicious as his body seemed older than that the card entails, but besides that. To his relief, the name did strike a familiar chord with him, but it was more like the name of a half-remembered childhood friend thanhisname. He checked the student ID and saw the unrecognisable name called Winslow in bold letters.
A name that doesn't resonate but nonetheless important.
Another object of interest is that there wasn't even a cell phone or a written list of contacts, which at this point felt like a personal insult.
The rest of the wallet didn't yield much more than that. There was a health insurance card, with much the same information as the Student ID which this body originally goes at, a grand total of... Dollar? Yes. American Dollar paper bills that counting the emergency twenty hidden behind his ID, and a spare of bowling-Nail clipper.
The picture on the card was easy enough to verify—that he was a white man with glasses was obvious, and thanks to his synesthesia warping his proprioception into something like a mental image of himself, he could tell without even looking at his reflection that the face in the picture was a perfect match. He had no idea what to make of that skill or delusion or whatever the fuck it was, so he moved on to the rest of the wallet's contents.
Taylor's Health insurance-card and given address were clearly American in name, but that only gave him a vague sense of familiarity as well. But he doesn't know that, it seems he's American or caucasian, or so it seem to him, which is... bad. In fact, America was probably one of the worst places for an amnesiac to be from, since it was so huge and famous pretty much everyone already knew what it was. He might be in America right now, for that matter, and not even know it. he couldn't answer with certainty but Brocktoon Bay seem American, or was it Boston? was boston American?
Wonderful.
He was completely fucked and out in ythe dark, at least the nail clipper has a dull blade. Sarcasm if you couldn't understand.
There wasn't even a goddamned debit card in his wallet. Who the hell didn't have any debit or credit cards? Was Taylor Hebert's some kind of ascetic or Luddite? Maybe it was just this fucked-up situation and the blood on his shirt or the corpses making him paranoid, but he had a sneaking suspicion that there were credit cards in there at one point, but they'd been removed for fear of being tracked.
In a fit of anger, Taylor almost chucked the wallet into the corner or the wall or whatever-the-fuck kind of dead ass room he was standing next to. He restrained himself, just barely, hissing through his clenched teeth.
He wouldn't find out anything more if he threw away his only lead in this god dammed room. For that matter, he still had no idea how he found himself here, and the thought of sticking around any longer set his teeth on edge.
Quickly rummaging over the corpse on the floor, he failed to find anything of importance such as another wallet or miscellaneous other than his clothing.
The corpse on the table is completely naked so there's that. Speaking of room, whatever should he do once he get out of here? He could open the open the entrance but then what?
Should he find a police station? No, for some reason, that felt like a really, really bad idea, even if he got rid of the bloody clothes beforehand. Strange instincts, but its that reason why he's still coherent isn't it?
On further introspection, didn't the fact that he was so averse to the idea of going to the authorities say something bad about him? He wasn't some kind of fugitive, was he? Oh god. The label felt like it fit, just like his name did, but the fuzzy ambiguity of his memory was so vague it was probably less helpful than having no memory at all.
Assuming he really was a fugitive...
What kind of crime was he wanted for? Was his name and face plastered on wanted posters? Jesus was he really considering-- No no no.
Shut it Taylor, you're wasting time. You. Can. Get. Out. Of. Here, After you determine that the room is rummage for what it's worth. The outside could be a safety hazard for all he knows, so it's better to be safe than sorry.
He might find some clues essential for his identity or protection for his well being.
On that note, why does he feel... detached? Like a thread cutted out of it source? Was something missing from him? it doesn't seem an item of keeping but more of a sensation.
But what?
"...Maybe later, I need to find more clues and monologuing seem a waste of time." He utters, but otherwise continued his search.