The Figure in The Mirror

The first thing I felt was the cold.

It seeped through my clothes and into my bones, an unfamiliar kind of cold that made me wonder if I had been lying there for hours. Days, perhaps. My body felt heavy, my limbs reluctant to obey me, and there was a dull ache behind my eyes that sharpened the moment I tried to remember how I had gotten there.

I opened my eyes.

Darkness stared back.

For a moment, I did nothing. I listened.

Water dripped somewhere in the distance. Wind slipped through a narrow opening above me, carrying the faint smell of rain and something metallic.

Blood.

I sat up too quickly.

Pain split through my skull, and I pressed a hand to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut until the room stopped spinning.

Where am I?

The question came easily enough.

The answer did not.

I looked around. Stone walls. A broken wooden chair. A narrow window through which a sliver of moonlight spilled onto the floor. There was no furniture besides the chair, no door that I could immediately see, and no sign that anyone had occupied the room recently.

Except for me.

I looked down at myself.

A pale blouse, torn at the sleeve. Dark trousers. Bare feet, scraped and filthy. My fingernails were stained with something dark.

Blood, I thought again.

My stomach tightened.

I rubbed my fingers together, trying to determine whether the substance was wet or dry. It crumbled beneath my nails.

Old blood.

Someone else's, I hoped.

Then I noticed the dagger.

It lay across my lap, its dark handle resting against my thigh as though someone had carefully placed it there. The blade caught the moonlight, revealing a thin line of silver etched along its length. Strange symbols ran from the hilt to the tip, so intricate that looking at them made my eyes hurt.

I picked it up.

My hand closed around the handle with startling familiarity.

I knew how to hold it. Where to place my thumb. How to angle the blade so that it would be most effective.

I knew how to use it.

I had no idea how I knew.

I dropped it.

The dagger struck the stone floor with a sharp clang that seemed much too loud for the small room.

I scrambled away from it.

"No."

My voice sounded strange. Hoarse. Fragile.

I swallowed and tried again.

"No, no, no."

I searched my pockets with shaking hands. Nothing. No phone. No identification. No note explaining why I had been abandoned in what looked like a crypt.

Not even a name.

I tried to remember my name.

Surely that was something everyone knew. Surely, no matter how badly someone was injured, no matter what terrible thing had happened to them, a name was the one thing that remained.

I closed my eyes.

I reached for something familiar.

A face. A voice. A childhood bedroom. Someone calling me home.

Anything.

Nothing came.

There was only a vast, hollow silence where my life should have been.

I pressed both hands against my temples.

"Think."

The word came out like a plea.

"Please, just think."

I searched harder, forcing my mind to reach beyond the darkness. I tried to imagine a mother, a father, a friend. I tried to picture a face that would make my heart soften with recognition.

But every image dissolved before it could form.

It was as though someone had taken a knife to the pages of my life and cut out every word.

I couldn't remember being born.

I couldn't remember growing up.

I couldn't remember ever having been alive.

The last thought made me go completely still.

What if I wasn't?

I looked down at my hands. Turned them over. Pressed my fingers into my palm until the sting brought tears to my eyes.

Pain.

I could feel pain.

I was breathing.

I was alive.

I repeated it silently, clinging to the words as though they were a prayer.

Then something moved outside the window.

I froze.

A shadow passed across the narrow opening, followed by the sound of footsteps.

Slow.

Measured.

Coming closer.

I grabbed the dagger.

The footsteps stopped.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then a voice spoke from the other side of the wall.

"You're awake."

It was a man's voice. Low, calm, and entirely too unsurprised.

I stared at the place where I thought the door ought to be.

"Who are you?"

Silence.

I tightened my grip on the dagger.

"I asked you a question."

"And I heard you."

His voice was closer now.

I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the dizziness that swept through me. "Where am I?"

"You shouldn't be here."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "That's helpful."

"You need to leave."

"Then tell me where I am!"

For the first time, something shifted in his voice.

Fear.

Not for himself.

For me.

"Listen carefully," he said. "When you find the door, don't look behind you. Don't stop for anyone. And whatever you do, don't let them hear you speak your name."

My mouth went dry.

"What name?"

The silence that followed was so complete that I could hear my own heartbeat.

Then he said, very softly, "You don't remember."

It wasn't a question.

I took a step towards the wall. "Remember what?"

A sound came from the other side.

A quiet, broken exhale.

Almost a laugh.

Almost a sob.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Not again."

The words settled over me like ice.

Not again.

I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, but the wall behind me creaked.

I spun around.

A narrow doorway had appeared where there had been nothing but stone a moment before.

Beyond it stretched a corridor lit by flickering candles. At its far end stood a staircase leading upwards.

And at the bottom of the staircase lay a body.

A woman.

Her dark hair spilled across the stone, hiding most of her face. She wore the same pale blouse as I did. The same dark trousers.

The same bare feet.

My knees nearly gave way.

I approached her slowly, the dagger trembling in my hand.

"Hello?"

She didn't move.

I crouched beside her and reached for her shoulder.

The moment my fingers touched her skin, a memory tore through me.

Not a dream.

Not an imagined scene.

A memory.

A pair of gloved hands holding my face.

A room flooded with white light.

Someone screaming.

What is happening??