Date: 02370074 Day 04.

To do: Work on the “little seekers” technical report. Read The Daily Mail. Purchase a National Express ticket to District II.

I was on the underground train when I first met him. Through the eyeholes of my mask, I observed him as he flipped through pages of the newspaper. Highly saturated printing colors contrasted greatly with his dull and melancholic look. He was swapped with an old, worn coat, intentionally hiding his skin from the turbid air inside the vehicle. The train crackled and screeched on the iron track. The flickering lights above us seemed to bother him as he tried to cover his head with the newspaper. I stared at him absent-mindedly, which clearly startled him as he avoided eye-contact. But I was too lost in my thoughts to notice that.

He cleared his throat. I found out that I had been staring at his face—or mask—for too long. Embarrassed, I spoke under my breath.

“Sorry, I-I didn’t mean t-to…”

He waved his hand dismissively before I could finish my sentence. He then turned to stare out of the window. His dirty blond hair waved slightly with the turbulence of the air conditioner. I sat beside him, red-faced for my mindlessly rude behavior. After a long and awkward silence, he finally turned to face me. I could not help but gaze at his face…no, mask. I realized the bright and pallid mask was covered with dirty, colorful smears. Two eyes are carved as sad, curved slits instead of happy arches.

“It was not the first time, for you to…” His voice was trembling, accompanied by a sigh.

“W…What?”

“It was not the first time you stared at me like that. At my mask, or whatever.”

Suddenly I felt ashamed. Clearly, he had mistaken the attentive staring for hostility.

“I-I am so sorry, I didn’t mean t-to be rude…it’s just that your face- I mean, um, mask- is different. So different. I couldn’t help but notice…and I became a bit lost in my-my thoughts. And I…”

My deficiency caught up with me quickly. I had never been able to deliver more than three sentences without collapsing into inaudible mutter and nonsense. I opened my mouth, desperately trying to explain, but no words came out from my futile efforts. I lowered my head.

I gathered the courage to look at him again. The mask covered the entirety of his face, but I still managed to make out a slight smile. It was a sad smile.

“Train arrives at destination: City Center Tower Twelve—National Technology Institute. Train arrives at destination: City Center Tower Twelve—National Technology Institute. Next stop: City Center Bridge Two—”

The monotoned, artificial voice rang through my ears. I thanked it in my heart for saving me out of this mess with a stranger on the underground. As I quickly grabbed my bag and darted to the train’s door, I could see with my peripheral vision that he gave me a look. For some reason, my destination seemed to trigger a curious gaze from him; but I was too embarrassed to even wave a goodbye.

I collected my breath as I dashed up the stairs to the ground level. The moment I was out of the dark tunnel, cold and bitter wind blew on me. The fresh smell of smoke and dust in the air filled my lungs. The black smoke covered the entire sky. I walked on the steel-paved streets. Grey buildings rose beside me like pillars supporting the sky from falling. Black wires tangled the streetlamps like tentacles. Everything seemed grey, different shades of grey. The streetlamps were never off, or the city would be too dark to walk in. Automobiles raced beside me, skidding on the road while the tires screamed. I covered up my ears instinctively and walked further away from the road. Those automobiles are the most terrible invention, they always act like they are going to hit me.

I finally arrived at the National Technology Institute Building. I pushed open the glass doors and went inside, dazzled by the brightly white and immaculate hall. Well, the only place that wasn’t grey.

“Good morning, Harper,” I greeted the red-haired female at the reception desk as I would every day. Her amicable attitude, whether natural or trained, could always lighten my mood a bit.

Harper turned away from her screen full of lists of names to face me. “Good morning, Jonathan!” She replied enthusiastically with a weird emphasis on the word “good”. Her bright orange mask surely suits her passionate personality, I thought. 

Working at the National Technology Institute is a very effective way to make every day of your life feel exactly the same. But those governmental-run companies can grant you the stability that no other jobs can, which I happily accept. Individual organizations can never last more than a decade in The Nation. They bring fortune, as well as unemployment and bankruptcy (even imprisonment in some cases!). It seems like only jobs for the Nation can give one a stable income. The Government, or the “Supreme National Party”, always favors the technology institute, as if it cannot function without it. Of the many branches, The Department of Inquiry and Security in the institute is benevolent enough to grant me an occupation for inventing new versions of Truth Observers, or what we like to call them, little seekers. The Upperpeople are always urging us to come up with new designs, even though the current ones seem flawless. Sometimes I wonder why, but no one else seems to complain, so I guess they have their reasons.

As the steel doors of the lift opened, I walked to the entrance of the department office. The security gates scanned the Personal Identity Chip injected into my neck before letting me through. The lights flashed green.

“Good morning, Mister Jonathan Faust.” The gates said in a mechanical voice.

The day was dull and uninteresting, as usual. The department had no real work to do, and many or my peers just sat there aimlessly. Most of the other days I would be wondering about how the Serial Biography of “How I Made My Nation” by the Supreme National Leader would end (because it goes on forever) or read The Daily Mail’s “spotlight stories”; but something else occupied my mind today. I could not help but relive the brief fifteen minutes of my life on the underground over and over again in my brain. The white-masked stranger appeared in my consciousness, a phantom of something I could not remember. It’s probably because of the embarrassment and shame, I thought. I should not have acted like that. But his mask, especially the eyes…why is he a bit different? And why does it look so familiar?

I wonder what is behind his mask—

I snapped away my thought. How could I think that? It is against the law of the Nation to uncover one’s face. But I guess it’s just one of my annoying intrusive thoughts…

“Hey, Jonathan! You finished your report yet? The Director is waiting!”

Reagan’s voice cut my threads of thought and dragged me back to reality.

“Uh, s-sorry, I will finish it…right now. Five minutes-Right now. A moment. I mean, now. I-” I scrambled for words as I recovered from the shock.

“Lost in your thoughts again? You know thoughts are only thoughts…unless you put them into action! Now I want the report in five minutes, as you promised.”

Defeated. My inability in verbal communication always resulted in more useless and whimsical thoughts that deviated me from reality. Reality was painful, especially when it asked you to write a one-thousand-word report in five minutes. How I regretted my procrastination. I had no idea how I finished it and escaped the terrifying anger from Reagan. She probably thought that report was worse than scrambles of a child, but she was too kind to openly lash on me.

The working hours finally ended. I left the National Technology Institute and rode on the same underground line in the morning, but I didn’t find the figure that I was thinking for the past several hours. I sat in the seat alone, a bit let down and disappointed. It seemed like he was gone.

                                    To do list completed, except buying the ticket.

Date: 02380074 Day 05.

To do: Go to work. Read the Daily Mail. Clean the mask. Purchase a National Express ticket to District 2 (IMPORTANT!! forgot this yesterday).

         To my surprise, I met him again this morning. He was in the same seat as yesterday, curling up in the corner near the window. I sat down beside him quietly. He still wore that same shabby coat, and his pale white mask looked even dirtier compared to yesterday. I was gathering my courage to talk by rehearsing a conversation a million times in my brain while he stared out the smeared train window. I could hardly tell if he was looking at the people on the platform or reading the old posters obstructing his view. As I was slowly consumed by anxiety, he spoke first.

         “Are you an author now? Novelist or journalist?”

         He clearly mistook my diary habits for writing literature. But his word choice bewildered me, for now no one has occupations of “author”, “novelist” or “journalist”. They are archaic words, words we no longer use.

“You…you mean, fr-from the National Documentation Department?”

“Excuse me for my vocabulary. Yes, I meant that. Do you have a job there?”

“No. I occup-work in the…the National Technology Department.”

“Then why do you write?”

Suddenly I went silent. I was not writing, rather scribbling my thoughts down before they could escape me. It helped me remember things. My brain raced to craft sentences to help me explain my issues. How could I articulate my broken streams of thought that troubled me every day to a stranger? The anxiety consumed me again. He noticed my wordlessness.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to explain if you feel uncomfortable.” He spoke in an apologetic tone.

I shrugged. The rest of the train ride was soaked in silence, as he continued to stare out of the window. All I could hear was the humming from the air conditioner and the distance noise from another section of the vehicle. The train was traversing between the grey buildings on a Highway Bridge like a snake slithering through tall grass. Below, white streetlamps lighted up the street in the heavy mist created by The National Factory Complex. In the distance, through the gaps of posters on the window, I spotted a forest of huge chimneys spewing out dark smoke into the sky. As the monotone voice of the train spoke of its arrival at City Center Tower Twelve—The National Technology Institute, I stood up and waved goodbye to the stranger. But the instance I stepped out of the train door, I regretted not asking for his name.

I arrived at my seat in The Department of Inquiry and Security office before greeting Harper. My seat was near the window, giving me a satisfactory view of the West City Peripheral. Years ago, for how long I could not remember, when the National Factory Complex was not spewing smoke like it is doing now, I could sometimes catch a glimpse of sunset. I still could not forget how that giant red fireball slowly descended behind the horizon. As I stared outside of the window, Cymbeline, with her cup of stimulus drink, walked over.

“Hey. Lost in your thoughts again?”

I was a bit startled at first, but when I recognized Cymbeline’s voice, so all was well.

“Yeah. Do...do you s-still remember the sun…sets?”

“What are you talking about again?” Her mouth crooked up into a kind smile behind her mask. “Of course I do. I watched it with you…how many years ago? Ten years? How time flies.”

She looked around and bent down, shortening the distance between us. She whispered into my ear under Her breath.

“Listen. I’m here not for memories of sunsets, but rather another important matter. Reagan told me the Director was looking for a new engineer—someone who’s skilled enough to handle what she calls true technology stuff. The Director wants someone to help fix a thing with the little seeker’s chip, and she recommended you.”

Cymbeline’s words made me confused. I didn’t exactly remember what happened with Reagan and me yesterday, so I flipped through the pages of my book. Ah. I procrastinated and submitted a poorly written report to her. I thought. But why is she giving this promotion thing? I surely didn’t do great for that thing I wrote…but she didn’t lash upon me, according to my yesterday self. Also…what is this chip? I think it is supposed to be my specialty, but I haven’t done that in ages…

I thought I heard Cymbeline quietly sigh while she looked me reading my book. She gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder. I turned to look at her and saw a faint melancholy in her eyes.

“Jonathan, I think this is an incredible opportunity to prove yourself capable after all these years. But if you failed, it would be disastrous.”

“Cymbeline, I-I think…I can do this-maybe.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard. You know if you do, your…syndrome will worsen.”

I sighed. It is always the syndrome. The memory. The forgetfulness. The thoughts. The words.

“Talk to Reagan. You need to decide for yourself if you want to do it or not.”

I walked from the door of the National Technology Institute building while waving goodbye to Harper. The 6 PM evening cold air made me shiver in my thin, dark coat. The mist seemed heavier than ever, clouding the lights from the streetlamps, dimming the street. The huge edifices beside me seems darker than the sky, like a shadow casted by the pillars of smoke. I wondered about the promotion Cymbeline talked about during work.

Things like this always makes me anxious. I don’t know if my memory will allow me to preform intense work like that. I still do not understand why Reagan chose me to do the work…she could have promoted anyone to do the job, and it would be better than me. I’m sure Cymbeline will be more competent when it comes to inventing chips. Did I forget something? Oh, the ticket!

After walking down the stairs to the tunnel and the underground train hall, I quickly found a way to the reception desk and bought a ticket to District II, departing on Day 07.

I’m glad about the habit of documenting my tasks down, for it makes things so much easier.

At night, I could not sleep because of the promotion. For some reason it seemed to depress and excite me at the same time.

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02390074 Day 06.

To do: Ask Reagan about the promotion. Read the Daily Mail. Ask the stranger his name.

It came with no surprise that I found him at the same spot on the underground train as from yesterday. I waved and quickly sat beside him. This kind of event seemed to have evolved into a daily ritual for me and for him. My eyes wondered around.

“Um…good-good morning.” I said in a small voice as I sat beside him.

The stranger seemed delighted that I spoke first. I got a glimpse of his crooked smile from the eyeholes of his mask.

“Glad you talk to me first. It’s been a long time.”

I was slightly confused by his words, for me a day wasn’t considered as “a long time”. The stranger paused for some seconds and sighed. He stared at me in silence. It seemed like decades had passed in the uneasy silence between us. My brain raced to make up my mind if to say something or not, overthinking if my greeting had really lightened him up, or he was being sarcastic at my enthusiasm. I could feel my thoughts slowly devouring me from inside, and with it I spiraled down into a bottomless pit of fear.

He certainly caught onto my anxiety, and he spoke.

“Good morning, Jonathan.”

The name hit me like a thunder. I stared at him wide-eyed, shocked, and puzzled. The spirals seemed to tighten up even more. He knows my name. How? Is he a National Police? Am I in trouble? I better quickly explain that I always revered the Nation and the Supreme Leader…Before I could recover from the confusion and reorganize my broken thoughts into a sentence, he continued.

“I’m sorry it comes to you as a shock.” The stranger seemed a bit discouraged. “It seems like you don’t really remember. I’m Rafael.”

“Did w-we know e-each other before? But…but h-how do you-” I pointed a finger at myself.  

“One thing you should be certain is that I am not a National Police, or some kind of stalker spying on people. For how I know your name-”

He paused. Another wave of uneasiness swam me.

“Um…it’s complica-it’s printed on the tag on your case that you carry around every day. A procedure for National workers, I know.” Rafael responded while pointing at my suitcase. The tag did have “Jonathan” written on it. But, for some reason his sentence seemed dissonant with his thoughts. Is he lying? Covering certain things up? Is it something I don’t know…or worse, something I don’t remember?

The rest of the train ride we sat in silence. I pulled out my Daily Mail and started reading, but I could not help but get distracted and peak at Rafael with the corner of my eye. Every time I look at him, he seemed to be in the same position-looking out of the window, never turning to face me. That caught me wondering what he had been through. He surely didn’t look like a National Police, or any Governmental Agent because of his eccentric appearance; it is widely known that the Nation favors people who look popular and normal, even mediocre. The thoughts interrupted my reading as I quickly put away my Daily Mail and started flipping through my book. Pages after pages were the events happened each day for the past decade, yet nothing mentioned the name “Rafael”. I then quickly added him into my “List of Important People” because I was too afraid to forget his name next morning and cause an embarrassment. The noise of pen screeching on paper caught Rafael’s attention. He turned and looked at me attentively but said nothing while I got slowly consumed by my own thoughts. No sign of Rafael…then it must be before the accident. I cannot recall anything before that. That automobile! How fluent and happy will my life be if I didn’t get hit?

The monotone train voice blasted through my ears as I quickly grabbed my case and waved goodbye to Rafael. He responded with a small wave. I wondered where he was going to every day after I left the train.

The sky seems greyer and darker today. After arriving at the National Technology Institute building and greeting Harper, I quickly entered the office and settled on my seat. The daily dose of random tapping on the computer and time-wasting list-sorting are what keep me alive financially at this company. Sometimes I do consider new endeavors to challenge myself, but they all fall out of favor due to my inability in verbal communication and memory.

I snapped myself out of my thoughts as I saw Cymbeline walking over, as always with her cup of stimulus drink. At this point I wondered if she’s addicted to that liquid.

“Jonathan, I’m worried about you and that promotion.”

“W-Why? It should… be a g-good thing, right?”

“Of course, it is, but…you know, it just seems a little fishy.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. Cymbeline is always so protective over people, and sometimes it’s quite hilarious. I grasp the difficulties that my syndromes have forced upon me, but after a careful and exhausting evaluation last night before sleep, I know too well that there is never a choice granted to me on the promotion. I must accept this promotion, because if I didn’t the Director would probably expel me from working for the National Technology Institute.

“Cymbeline…I-I have no ch-choice. I have t-to accept…it.”

She nodded solemnly and gently patted on my shoulder before walking away. This kind of action has always been used to show her affirmation and encouragement.

Later that day, Reagan unsurprisingly called me to go to her office on the matter of promotion, which was almost exactly what Cymbeline had told me earlier. The Little Seeker chip, and new lab, etc. Then Reagan asked me to go to the Director’s office with her, which for some unknown reason, deeply unsettled me. The Director’s office is isolated from the grey and messy common workplace. After walking through a long and rewinding hallway with Reagan, who was uncharacteristically silent, we arrived at a gate for identity recognition.

“Do not scan your identity chip on the gate, it will not let you through. I will call the Director and ask him to open it for us.” Reagan remarked. I thought I heard a slight sense of anxiety as she tried to suppress her nervousness. I nodded in response and said nothing.

The gate finally opened after several minutes of waiting. Saying I was surprised by the scene would be a massive understatement. Through the door I could see a huge room with a dome, like the old Italian buildings destroyed during the Great National War in old picture books. The entire space was extremely bright. Some pictures of the Institute’s products hung on the impeccable smooth white walls. The bright fluorescent light contrasted greatly with the dim common workplace, which made me squint. In the center of the room was a round, white marble table. A huge ivory sphere floated above it, eerie and disturbing. A sudden qualm flowed down my spine, making me shiver. In one of the soft white chairs around the table sat a tall man, dressed also in white, which made him mingle into the background. His cold silver mask reflected the fluorescent into my eyes as I could feel his winter freezing stare on my face. Reagan quickly shuffled me into the room.

“The…the Director.” I mumbled as I bowed down to show respect.

The man in white waved his hand to signal us to sit down in the two chairs around the table. I could feel Reagan patting on my back to comfort me.  

“So…Mr. Faust, am I right?” The Director’s voice was as cold as snow in the winter.

I nodded.

“Well…I believe Reagan has told you about the promotion, is that right?” The question triggered a quick affirmation from the red-haired female as she tried to reiterate what she said to me. The Director interrupted her coldly without paying attention.

“Mr. Faust, we will need you to cooperate with us on this…invention of Truth Observer new chip. Reagan told me that you were a specialty in this field…and our Institute has always trusted you with great respect.” His slow and firm tone revealed a sense of superiority. “We, the Institute, understand how your…syndrome might affect the project, but after careful evaluation by the council, we, representing the Nation and its interest, have determined that it is entirely suitable for you to work for us.”

A short pause from the Director a silence accompanied by a sense of uneasiness.

“So, Mr. Faust, do you accept this new occupation granted by the Nation to you?”

The familiar uncomfortable silence sneaked into the room once again. I could see Reagan looking at me nervously, but a slight anticipation slipped through her stern eyes. Looking at me like that, as if she is expecting me to refuse this promotion. I thought. But the blinding lights in the office quickly snapped me out of my profound dark thoughts.

“Y-Yes, Director, I…I accept th-this new occupation.”

I could hear my voice shake. Reagan, who was sitting across the table, looked slightly defeated and discouraged. Why doesn’t she want me to have the job? Didn’t she recommend me to do it? Is she trying to get me into trouble so I can be out of the Institute?

 “Good. We know you, Mr. Faust, is a worthy worker for the Nation and its interests. We want you to start working on the next Day 01, if it accommodates your interests.” I could hear the smile in the Director’s voice.

I once again affirmed my choice on his request, and he dismissed us out of his office. Reagan grabbed me on my arm as she tried to rush to the gate.

“Jonathan, I cannot believe you are going to work on this project. The Little Seeker Chip…I am so, so sorry to get you into this mess-”

Reagan was interrupted because I started laughing out loud, a behavior not so popular in Nation’s society because it demonstrates too much emotion. She stared at me, bewildered by my reaction.

“D-Do you like m-me this much, that you…don’t w-want me to leave th-this department?”

I smiled at her, and I knew she could see it. Reagan’s apologetic tone was unmoved by my satirical quip, however, as she continued to apologize even more.

“Look, Jonathan, I am sorry, and I think you misunderstood me. I wasn’t jealous of you because of this…promotion. I will never be jealous of anyone. It’s just because I know it will be difficult for you, especially with that…syndrome.”

If it was not because almost the entire office was staring at us, I would laugh out loud again. How closely her tone resembles Cymbeline! Why is Reagan so out of her usual mood and character? And what is she to do with this promotion? I was thrown in a state of being morbidly delighted and uncontrollably confused.

“Jonathan, you are lost in your thoughts again. You know what, forget what I just told you, just maintain your current quality of work during the Chip project. You will be fine.” Her tone suddenly returned to her usual coldness and sternness, which almost seemed comical at this point. I was and would always be surprised at how good Reagan was at suppressing her own emotions. As I continued to entertain myself with my thoughts, she gave me a pat on the back.

Now I am lying on my bed, alone, curled up on a pillow and some blankets. The small box-like room I reside in is lit by a dim, yellow lamp, dangling from the ceiling. A desk and a bed, and paper everywhere piled up like smeared ivory pillars. I grabbed the Daily Mail from my bed-side desk, for after reviewing my book I noticed I did not finish reading it on the underground train. I can feel the familiar feeling of thoughts coming into my mind. Reagan’s suspicious attitude towards the promotion, Cymbeline’s remark on the project, and the Director’s dazzling white office reappear into my brain. I know tonight is going to be sleepless.

To do list completed.

Date: 02400074 Day 07.

To do: This is a day off. Go to District II on National Express to purchase a new book (for remembering things) and a printer. Read the Daily Mail.

I got out of bed this morning feeling like I had a hangover. My head ached from last night’s lack of sleep. I walked sluggardly to the washroom, staring into the foreign image of my face in the mirror, eyeballs dug deeply into the sockets. After some morning preparation and putting on my mask, I got my case and went out to catch the morning National Express at the District VI South Station.

Walking in the District City Center in a cold Day 07 was never a forgettable experience. Thankfully my mask blocked the cold autumn wind from blowing straight into my face. The sky was still as grey as ever, but a little brighter. The sunrays were muffled by the heavy mist from National Factory Complex. I walked into the tunnel of the underground station and caught a glimpse of a figure that surprised me.

Rafael, still cloaked in his old coat, was standing near the platform waiting for the underground. He looked surprisingly tall compared to other people around him. I quickly approached him as he turned to look at me, alerted and startled like a wild animal in the woods.

“Oh.” He exclaimed in response to the shock. “Didn’t expect you to be so early this morning. Off to work?”

I shuddered. It seemed like he did not understand normal working schedule in the Nation. People only work on Day 01 to 06, not on Day 07.

“N-No. We don’t w-work on…Day 07. I’m going t-to District II….”

Rafael gave me a look, and continued, “well, can I go with you, then?”

I stared at him, surprised. Before I could be dragged down by my thoughts, I automatically replied “yes”, which led him running off to buy a ticket. While Rafael was gone, I stand in the middle of the platform, letting my bewilderment slowly consume me. Why does he want to go with me? We are only strangers who met on the underground by chance… A sudden painful thought flew across my mind. What if we met before the accident? What if I knew him but forgot everything?

Before I could go down my thoughts any deeper, Rafael was back with a ticket in his hand. We walked together towards the National Express Station and boarded the train after several minutes of waiting. The National Express links all National Districts together into a network. Except District X, of course, which is dedicated to the Upperpeople of the Nation that we cannot access. The National Express looks more polished than the underground trains. The Express is painted in immaculate white, reflecting lights in the station like a mirror. It travels in a long steel tube (the tracks) extremely fast, which makes it quite fun to imagine being in a tube flying with a speed of several hundred kilometers per hour.

“I prefer the seat near the window…do you mind?” Rafael asked when we found our seats. I quickly shook my head. Although for a second, I really wanted to tell him the window was only a decoration; nothing could be seen while the train travelling in the tunnel.

The Express accelerated as I felt a push upon my chest. Rafael was visibly disappointed by the view out of the window as he muttered “how did I forget they changed the tracks…what a terrible view!” I pulled out my Daily Mail as he still stared out of the window stubbornly. Today’s Supreme Leader’s “How I Made My Nation” was surprisingly dull, probably because after years of writing the Supreme Leader ran out of ideas. Out of curiosity, I peaked at Rafael and was surprised to meet his glance.

“You know, it wasn’t always like that. The view. I remember decades ago staring out of the National Express window, seeing all the marvelous rural landscapes that were so different from the metropolitan area of the district.” Rafael remarked while pointing at the darkness behind the glass. “That’s why the train has windows. They changed the tracks but didn’t bother to remove the windows.” He looked at my face, as if trying to read my expression.

“You probably don’t remember…” He muttered in a small voice. I lowered my head, a bit ashamed by my memory problems.

“But it didn’t matter, right, Jonathan? It’s a new beginning for you. When did you start to not remember things? Do you remember that?”

Hearing a stranger who I met on the underground train days ago speak of my name like speaking of an old friend made me a bit uncomfortable. Maybe I did know him years ago but forgot him. It surely will be very difficult for him as well…

Rafael suddenly laughed and brought me back to reality.

 “Do you not remember when you started to forget things?”

“N-No. Sorry. It’s just…I-I started to think, and it…it doesn’t stop.” I paused to recollect my breath. “It…was an accident. A-Automobile accident…t-ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry. Automobiles are surely disastrous when it comes to accidents.”

A short pause.

“Why are you going to District II?”

“W-Why are you…c-coming with m-me, then?”

I mimicked Rafael’s incurious tone, and my fluency imparity made it more comical.  This made him broke into laughter. His laugh was something I have never heard before. It was so repleted with emotion: the genuine joy and delight from his heart. I smiled a little.

“I-I need another…b-book, you k-know. You can o-only get them in…District II.”

“Oh. The red-covered ones you use for keeping things. Well, I’m sure that’s helpful for your…memory.”

The train slowed down abruptly as Rafael got himself hit on the seat in front of us. He mumbled some inaudible words as he started gathering his stuff. I put my book and the Daily Mail into my case, ready to go off. The first thing I noticed is the unnaturally coldness when the train doors opened. District II did not look that different from District VI, for the sky above us was still grey, the buildings still dusty, roads still filled with filth. Then I noticed something odd on the streets. Piles of white, icy lumps gathered on the roads, making it slippery. Before I could be lost in my thoughts again, Rafael poked me in the arm to make me move.

“Where are we going?” Rafael was trying to be as patient as possible while I fumbled the pages of my book, searching for the map I drew for myself years ago.

“I f-found it…Let’s go.”

The Printing Press Store was located on a street filled with other shops. Usually, this street would be swum with people, yet today only some, resilient of the cold, were outside. I found the store easily by referencing a drawing on my book. I pushed the door open, and Rafael followed. It was a very small space with every inch filled with goods. Paper was piled up into huge stacks, which reminded me of my residence. The manager of the store looked up from newspaper when heard us coming in.

Rafael stood beside me, staring curiously as I dug carefully in the piles of dusty objects. I finally found the exact copy of my current book—a dark crimson, fabric covered notebook with an interesting pattern carved on it. I quickly rushed to the desk to buy it but was stopped by Rafael.

“It would be wise if you check your shopping list, so you don’t forget anything,” he remarked, which he was clearly correct because I completely forgot the printer.

The ride home on the National Express was dull because Rafael lay asleep beside me as I wondered wildly in my brain. We departed at the station, and I headed home. Now, under the dim yellow lamp hanging from my ceiling, I am lying down on my mattress with closed eyes, straddling in my exotic thoughts as my consciousness slowly collapse into chaos. The sudden anxiety of tomorrow’s work at the National Technology Institute hit me, as I realized I would be working on the Little Seeker Chip from now on. The promotion is like a parasite, biting at the threads of my thought whenever I fall into the trap that I’ve created for myself.

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02410074 Day 01.

To do: First day work at Little Seeker Chip invention project. Calm down. Read the Daily Mail.

“You are dozing off. Did you not sleep last night?”

I opened my eyes wide and found out I was on the underground train, with Rafael sitting next to me. After a quick headshake to respond his question, I shut my eyes again. Last night was another sleepless night accompanied by vines of thoughts tangling and tying up my brain, as I meandered in the dangerous jungle of my consciousness.

“What’s the matter, Jonathan? You look tired.”

 “Nothing…J-Just anxious about a p-promotion at work…”

“Oh. Okay. I hope it goes well for you. You know, I think you will be fine.” With that, I slept for the rest of the ride until the underground monotone blasted me out of my sleep as I rushed out of the train, not forgetting to wave goodbye at Rafael.

After my morning greeting with Harper and daily small talk with Cymbeline, Reagan called on me. Cymbeline gave me an encouraging look and patted me on the shoulder before I walked away from her. Reagan led me to the elevator, and we went down together in that falling elevator. It felt like forever to reach the bottom floor—where the lab was located at. During our descent, Reagan was straddling nervously and looking at me from the corner of her eye. I wondered why she was acting like that; she wasn’t the one who needs to work on the chip.

The elevator finally reached the bottom floor and the doors slid open in a cracking sound. I followed Reagan through a labyrinth of doors and hallways. The deep basement of National Technology Institute was terra incognita for me. The huge steel pipelines and flickering white fluorescent lights above me made it look no different than the Post-Disaster Bunker I stayed in for most of my childhood. The metal floor creaked as I walked on them. Being so deep down beneath the surface, the air was still with a scent of chemicals. Everything seemed metallic and artificial, and the low celling made me feel suppressed. I don’t think I can stand a chance working here, I thought. This place is too dark for me, and resonated with some of my long-forgotten memories…

Reagan suddenly stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath. I looked at her but was greeted by an angry glare. I shrugged at this “typical Reagan behavior”. The automatic door opened slowly as Reagan inserted a string of numbers while using her body to block my view of the keypad. After scanning our identity chip on the recognition gates inside and passing through a few more doors, we arrived at a white, smooth one that looked different from the rest. Reagan looked at me and sighed.

“It’s your first day working in this…project. Good luck. I will pick you up once you’re finished.”

I nodded while suppressing a laugh. It’s like going to school in the old times. Reagan sighed again and walked away. Her tall figure was engulfed by the infinite metal pathway.

I slowly pushed open the door. I was not sure what to expect inside, but surely not a room with several people cloaked in white standing by a surgery chair. I froze in shock, with my instinct screaming at me to turn and run away. But before I could act, one of the white figures approached me with a friendly tone.

“Mr. Jonathan Faust, I believe? Welcome to the Truth Observer Program. I am Dr. Steward. I will explain to you our procedure and expectations. Please come in.”

I slowly walked in and looked around. A surgery chair in the middle. A table with knifes placed so meticulously. A tray filled with glass bottles of liquid substances. Several computer screens in the corner. Paper and sheets carefully placed in folders. Not that different from a dentist office, except the huge pipelines and wires above the chair. I scribbled down in my book.

“So, Mr. Faust, as you may know from your ten-year working experience at the National Technology Institute, our Nation values security highly, especially for innovation projects that will benefit the public life greatly. The National Security Institute established a security guideline for us to adhere to. This program is rated Highest Security Level by the Institute. Therefore, we need to perform the Memory Altercation Measure.”

He paused as if to let me comprehend his words. Oh no, I pondered anxiously, anything involving memory isn’t going to be great for me. Now what is this about?

“The Memory Altercation Measure is a standard procedure proposed by the Council. It involves a non-invasive electromagnetic surgery that erase a certain memory for an individual. In this case, the memory erased will be your experience working on the Truth Observer program. Please do not worry on the side-effects of this measure, thousands of workers for the Nation have gone through this, and none developed lasting negative syndromes. For you, this means you will not remember any part of your participation in the program, thus guaranteeing the security for the Nation. Do you understand, Mr. Faust?”

“Y-Yes, Dr. Stewart. But…if I-I already cannot r-remember things happened h-hours ago…is this still-still necessary?”

“I understand your memory deficit syndrome, but the Nation makes no excuses when it comes to security.”

He stared at me coldly, making my eyes wonder away to avoid eye-contact. I slowly nodded in agreement while the other white figures led me onto the surgery chair. I closed my eyes at the bright lamp shining directly into my eyes. A cold sensation of pain, then nothing. My memory broke like a sheet of shattered glass. So that memory erasing procedure surely worked on me.

The next string of consciousness I could pick up was standing in the elevator with Reagan. She probably was talking, but my senses were too smothered by my thoughts that I could not answer. I was not sure if this is caused by the Memory Altercation Measure or my syndrome. A pain in my back cranium creeped in and started to play with my nerves.

Once I returned to the office, Cymbeline rushed to me from her desk.

“How was it? Had a good experience during the promotion?”

“Errr…T-To be honest Cymbeline, I-I do not r-remember…They h-had this…memory erasing thing, s-so my memory on the p-project was erased.”

“Oh.” I thought I see a flash of uneasiness and concern in her eyes. “Never mind that, I’m sure you did a great job even though you can’t remember it.”

In the corner of my eye, I saw Reagan walking pass by. She avoided my look and sliped away sheepishly. Cymbeline continued to talk about how she was worried what the procedure would do to my brain and how my syndrome might impact my own wellbeing. I assured her that there would be no negative effects, but she didn’t seem convinced.

The first day of the promotion was surprising mediocre, probably because I could not remember anything. The Nation surely has its way on things like this. After working at the lab, the back of my head hurt incessantly. Is this the side-effects of that procedure? I denied myself on that thought. Probably just my anxiety.

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02420074 Day 02.

To do: Second day after promotion. Read the Daily Mail. Ask for pain-killer pills.

From the moment I opened my eyes, the intense pain in my head could not be ignored. It was like a claw, gripping the back of my head while digging in its iron nails, trying to grab my flesh out. The vertigo accompanied me until I arrived at my seat on the underground train with Rafael by my side. His figure was slightly distorted because of my vision and the flickering lights above us. I rested silently while Rafael, as usual, stared out of the window.

“How’s the promotion?” He suddenly asked which almost made me jump.

“It’s q-quite…well. Honestly, I-I don’t remember b-because they erased my…memory.”

“Oh, the typical Nation thing to do.” His voice remained calm, but I could sense alertness and uneasiness sprinkled in his words.

After a short silence, he spoke again. This time more cautious. “So, because of certain things I could not be on this underground train every day. Can you please meet me at this place after work?”

He handed me a slip of paper, on it with dark ink written a set of address at the East Peripheral of the city. After putting out a piece of glue and sticking it onto my book, I started reading the Daily Mail. My thoughts blasted in my brain. Why does he want to meet me? Even changing locations? Maybe I knew him in the past? Maybe he’s just trying to rebuild our friendship bonds? I didn’t even finish the first sentence of “How I Build the Nation” when the monotone underground voice announced our arrival. I mumbled unhappily while waving to Rafael, who shouted “see you then!” while I stumbled out of the train.

After greeting Harper and sitting down on my seat, I lay my head on the table. I heard Cymbeline’s familiar footsteps as she walked over, gently placing something besides my head. I rose up and saw it was a white pill, while she put a finger on her lips.

“Pain killer. I know you need it. Quick, swallow it before anyone notices. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

I quickly took it and thanked her. I could never believe how Cymbeline seemed to read my mind so well. She always knows when I experience pain, and maybe that’s why she often seems overly protective over me. Reagan appoarched me to get me down to the basement, while Cymbeline watched us silently with folded arms. Everything was the same as yesterday: after traversing the long metal hallway to the Little Seeker laboratory, they asked me to lay down on the chair again. Then I lost memory for all.

The next thing I knew, at least according to my book, was I, walking through the unfamiliar East Peripheral neighborhood trying to find the address Rafael gave me. The East Peripheral is not that different from the South Peripheral where I live, but more underdeveloped. Because the East Peripheral is much closer to the National Factory Complex, the smoke is darker and heavier. Steel-paved streets under my feet and grey buildings by my side. Some automobiles rushing pass me, sending a shiver down my spine. Broken windows on the towers. Shattered glass flying down like dead butterflies. Flickering white streetlights illuminating a cloud of heavy mist above my head. Cold wind howling like hungry wolves. I shrunk my head into my huge, black coat, trying to evade the freezing air, but it still triggered my headache that was previous suppressed by Cymbeline’s pain killer.

I finally arrived at the building on the address. Standing in front of it looking up, it looked no different than a rectangular box with small squares on the surface. A slim street slithered its way through a myriad of building identical to this one. The building was not very tall, twelve stories maximum. From the messy balconies and lights, I could easily tell it was a residential building. Am I going to his residence? I thought as I climbed up the stairs. My strength was depleted after just four floors as my head hurt incessantly. I finally arrived at the nineth floor, and after regathering my breath, I knocked on a wooden door on the address.

I heard some fumbling noise, then Rafael opened the door. He was not in his usual shabby coat, but a dark apron coated in a mess of colors. There were also some colors painted on his white mask. I don’t know now drawing on masks is the fashion, I thought curiously. But before I could say anything, he grabbed me on my arm and dragged me in and shut the door behind me.

“Um, sorry I look like a mess. It’s always like this when I’m working.”

He quickly rushed into the room and closed a door by the side of the room. I frowned slightly at his suspicious actions. He invited me to sit down across him around a round table and offered me a cup. Through the window on my left, I could see the other grey buildings beside this one and hear the humming of the automobiles.

“Jonathan, there is a reason why I asked you to come here.”

He is nervous and troubled. What is it so important that I have to come here in person to hear? Or see? I thought while trying to fight back the pain in my brain.

“I know you lost memory ten years ago in an…an automobile accident.” Another sigh from him. “I understand that you might find it bizarre, or even unsettling of me talking to you like this. But, you know, I want to show you something that might bring you back in time…back before the accident. Back to a past that you aren’t aware. Back to the past that we cannot return to.”

Oh no. This is much more intense…and interesting than I expected. Now I am morbidly curious about my…past.

“If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.” Rafael, worried by my silence, spoke silently.

I shook my head. I want to know my past, on what I did before the life-changing event of being hit by an automobile. I longed for the memories of myself that others had but ironically, I did not possess.

“I-I want to d-do this. I’m c-curious. Let’s do this.”

“Okay. Alright. Follow me.”

He walked to the door that he previously shut in front of my eyes. By a turn of the handle, the wooden board cracked and opened. I walked in and looked around. The room was much bigger than the previous one. The scene in front of me was so foreign and so eccentric. A dimly lighted room, with huge boards covered in colors, some vaguely resembling everyday scenery but slightly distorted. Splashed colors on white paper. Pencil sketches of people and places on notebooks. Piles of tin cans of colors. Brushes dipped in dirty water and those colors. Even under the dim light, the colors looked so vibrant and radiating, as if they were escaping out of the boards they’re painted on. I gasped.

I stood in the center of the room staring as trying to recover from shock. Rafael poked me on my arm, and I turned around. I could feel he smiled a little behind his mask. I looked at the corner of the room and saw a huge board covered in white sheets.

“W-What is that? Why i-is it covered?”

“This is what I want you to see.”

He slowly pulled away the sheet. A cacophony of colors exploded into my eyes. This board was different from any painted boards in the room. I stared at it wildly. The vibrant strokes of color mingled together into something deeply unsettling and realistic—a shooting scene. People forced on their backs and pointed by guns. Dilapidated buildings smoking and burning in the background. Such a dark scene drawn with such vivid and bright colors, who could possibly do this? So revolutionary, so emotional…The Nation would certainly execute the person who created this…I was deeply unsettled and mesmerized by the painting in front of my eyes.

“Does that bring back anything?” Rafael looked at me with curious and melancholic eyes. My silent response made him to continue.

“It wasn’t that easy, Jonathan, I know especially for you. It doesn’t matter if that painting did not rekindle your long-forgotten memories. Honestly, it is better if you don’t remember what you did in your twenties. It’s safer. I don’t know if you’re aware, but if you put that painting, or literally anything in this room out in the public, we would be in big trouble. We would be hunted down by National Police and sent to prison or labor units in the National Factory in seconds.

“The Nation never appreciated art, or any emotions, Jonathan. Although most art were obliterated during the Great War and many others burnt after by the Nation, people can never let it go. People still created things based on emotions, even with this stupid mask on. The painting you’re looking at—it has survived and seen so much. It was being cut into pieces and resembled and cut again and resembled again…It is so fragile yet so powerful. I went through death with it after you were gone. I would die to save this…for you.”

I turned to him. I could see tears swelling up in his eyes through his mask. What is happening? Why is this painting so important? And most importantly, what did I do before I lost my memory? The thoughts were strangling me again. I was drowning in the dark water of my mind. The pain was now unbearably intense as I fell onto a chair next to me.

“Sorry I got all emotional when I see this painting. That’s why it’s covered by sheets. Jonathan, do you not remember anything related to this painting?”

I stared at him and tried to scramble for broken words to put into a coherent sentence.

“I-I mean it…looks very familiar…but I-I am afraid I d-don’t remember a-any details…”

I sighed. I hated myself for this memory syndrome. Not only did I not remember anything before the accident, but also things hours ago would be quickly forgotten. The realization stung me like a poison needle. I quickly got my book out and started scribbling on the pages. Rafael peeked over my shoulder and saw my quick sketches of the room and the painting in front of me. I stopped when I heard a sigh from him.

“You are sketching the painting I just showed you on your book? Are you afraid that you might forget it?”

I nodded.

“Jonathan, that painting I just showed you…that painting which I would die for...

“You painted it yourself.”

Date: 02430074 Day 03.

To do: Third day after promotion. Read the Daily Mail. Go to Rafael’s residence after work.

I was on the underground train reading the notes I took yesterday at Rafael’s residence apartment. Because I was in such a shock on the matter of the painting, the last half of his conversation was sadly lost in my memory as I forgot to write it down. I gathered the pieces of myself and tape them together quickly. Rafael was not on the underground train. I sat alone staring out, numb towards reality. The city streets were darker than ever, now even the streetlights could not penetrate the thick layer of smoke. The impending bitterness of winter coated a thin layer of freezing dew on my face. It must had rained yesterday. Small swamps of mud and water accumulated on the sidewalk. Pipelines were pouring out turbid rainwater like waterfalls. I stepped into the water as the fluid immersed my sense in the frigid winter.

The warm air conditioning in the National Technology Institute brought me back alive. I walked to the elevator after greeting Harper, then settled into my seat. Cymbeline was as usual chewing the fat with me. I could not recall her words anymore.

Walking through the basement of the National Technology Institute was no different than walking in my mind’s dark labyrinth. It was all twisted and depraved with no entrance or exit. It was endless, the black walls standing silently in eternal darkness. Walking, running, crawling, what was the difference?

“Jonathan.”

The soft lay-down chair. The huge pipelines and wires. The blindingly bright lamps. The tickling coldness upon my left arm. The memory. My memory. Reagan burying her face in her hands. Her words and her apologies. I drifted away.

“Jonathan.”

There was something in the sky. So immense. So dark. The impending doom of us all. There was nowhere to hide…

“Jonathan!”

Her voice was so loud. It ripped apart my ears. I turned and was met by Reagan’s worried and frustrated stare. I shuddered and replied some courtesy before going into the door to the laboratory.

The pain of my head was unbearably terrible. The vertigo distorted my vision as I straddled painfully towards the East Peripheral. The sounds of crows squeaking in my ears. My senses were smothered by the unknown experiences I went through. The dark clouds floating formidably in the sky. Black asphalt roads reflecting dull streetlights. The sky was the ground, the up was the down. I couldn’t find my way out. But I still had my book, the lighthouse upon a thunderous shore. With the address and sketches of the buildings, I finally arrived at the wooden door I was standing in front of yesterday. I knocked without hesitation.

Rafael was sitting across the table drinking from his cup. I looked down and saw a similar mug placed in front of me. The dark liquid reflected my masked face, distorted and slowly blurring into a bottomless pool. I looked up and encountered Rafael’s worried eyes.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you yesterday with the painting and Art Underground matters…I know it’s a huge shock to you about your past. It was not sinful or unjust in my eyes, but I don’t know what you think of yourself…”

I laughed slightly. I wasn’t angry at myself for my past. Intrigued should be the right word. I was never a great Nationalist; I was just numb towards the Nation’s ideologies. As long as that past stayed clandestine, I would be free of the tortures of the Nation. But sadly, I didn’t remember anything he told me yesterday.

“N-No. It’s just that…I-I forgot to w-write down what you said. And I remember n-nothing right now. W-What is Art Underground? I-I have never h-heard of it…”

“Oh, that. That’s…it’s fine, I can explain to you again, right now in fact.”

“The Art Underground was an underground organization. The resistance of the Nation. We stayed together to create any forms of art…many of which were long lost. We resurrected them. We drew, painted, sang, played, and filmed. You were part of it before the automobile accident, before you lost your memories. The Nation abhorred us. We were considered as traitors. They hunted us down with all matters…the identity chips, the central cameras, the little seekers…”

I raised my head in shock. The little seekers? What is this technology I am working on all along?

“I wasn’t from this district, but I did meet you quite a lot during our time in the organization. I lived in District III before what happened to District VI Art Underground, the organization you were in.”

“W-What happened?”

“It was tragic. Every member in this District VI Art Underground disappeared. It was rumored that the Nation captured and imprisoned all the members, but no evidence was found. It was flawless. But you escaped because you got hit by an automobile just hours before that. Although the accident left you with serious memory syndromes, it did free yourself from the gruesome tortures of the Nation.”

He took a sip from the cup. I did the same. The liquid tasted bitter but had an eccentric scent to it. It was something I have never experienced before.

“H-How can you be s-so sure? I’m…not an artist. I cannot show m-my emotions any-anymore. It’s all…g-gone from me. Maybe I-I wasn’t in the Art Underground. May-maybe I didn’t p-paint that artwork at all. Maybe you…you mistake me f-for another Jonathan.”

I thought I heard Rafael laugh. It was more of a chuckle, filled with delight. He continued.

“Well, you need to be more confident! Not only does that painting has your signature, but also this,” He pointed a finger at my red book. “Do you think it’s pure talent that you can draw so fast and so accurately? Jonathan, look through your book. The maps of underground trains, the streets of District VI, the shop we went together in District II, the people you met, and even your own painting…this is not talent, this is thousands of hours of work you put into your artistic journey. You are the best realism artist I have ever met! Your past assists you in remembering things through strokes of pen and slips of paper.”

I felt a bit of delight at his extol, but the doubt was still in my thoughts.

“Y-Yes. You have a point. I-I never wonder why I c-can do that. Drawing is v-very useful, especially when the Nation b-banned…photography and cameras.”

We both laughed. The rest of the evening we went into the room again, talking about paintings we did years ago. That room took me time traveling, back into my past which I experienced as the future. The longer I stayed in the room, the longer I wondered if I really was the person painting on a canvas. Maybe that automobile hit a part of myself out of my consciousness. It was the past I could never return to. I sat next to Rafael, the warm light cascading upon him as he continued to drink from his cup. The sky outside the glass window was darkening as we talked. It was too late; I quickly left his residence to rush to my place before the curfew started. The walk to South Peripheral was a torture. Empty streets and white streetlights. Bright headlights of the automobiles. I ran faster and faster until I caught up with the cold wind.

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02440074 Day 04.

To do: Fourth day after promotion. Read the Daily Mail. Go to Rafael’s residence after work.

The day seemed to be getting colder and darker. The Factory must have been working non-stop. I rushed to the National Technology Institute to escape the deadly grip of winter weather. Harper was as usual waving to me as I ran by. The bitter coldness seems to sharpen my dull senses and worsen my headache. Cymbeline gave me her last painkiller and sat by me, extremely concerned. She blamed it all on the promotion, saying it stressed me out, while I stare outside the window. The smears on the glass and the mist outside made the window almost opaque. I could hear her voice talking inside my head, comforting me in my deepest memories. I could feel the rays of the sun on my skin again.

“I-I miss the sunsets, Cymbeline. W-Why is it always n-night now?”

I could hear her sigh without an answer. I raise my head up and saw Reagan walking towards me. Another day working on the Little Seeker Chip. But I was somewhat distressed about the whole project, especially when thinking about Rafael’s remark on the Nation using it to spy on people. It was all the same from yesterday, the memory erasing procedure that made writing down anything pointless. I always thought when I lay down on that chair: how did they erase a specific segment of my thoughts? Would they be able to see my other memories? What if they found my past? I shivered from the thought. If that ever happened, Rafael and I would have to flee…we would have to hide from the National Police, the dark streets, the white factory walls. If we got caught…A biolab in District X. They were tied to the chairs. Surgeon knives and tranquilizers. Blink once. Blink again. Bright lights shining into my iris…

I walked out of the National Technology Institute after work. I saw Cymbeline following Reagan. What is Cymbeline up to again? Is she going to stop me from working on the promotion? I wouldn’t mind. I flipped through the pages of this book as I walked to the East Peripheral. What was I writing in the last paragraph? What is “biolab in District X”? Why did I write that down? Did the memory erasing thing caused some confusion in my brain? I wandered in my thoughts and let them shatter me into a million different pieces. Once I was so sure I would be able to find them and stick them together, but I was not.

Sitting in the room full of paintings with Rafael calmed me down. Staring at the painted canvas in silence made my troubling thoughts slowly leave my mind. Rafael was lying in another chair beside me, looking at me curiously.

“I know it seems very impudent to ask, but I cannot hold back anymore. How is it like not to be able to remember things?”

“N-No, ask anything. I wasn’t off-offended at all. Actually, I’m happy that-that you asked. No-Nobody really think…from my perspective. Not remembering things…it is-is difficult to ex-explain. It messes with your th-thoughts…”

My words once again failed me. So many thoughts in my brain, yet my words could not organize themselves into a sentence to tell my thoughts. Am I the prisoner of my brain? I sighed and handed Rafael my book.

“I-I don’t know how to…how t-to talk about it. But I-I can write. Please r-read it…”

He took it from my hand gently. His hands were shaking when he held the book from his eyes. The meticulous movement of fingers, so careful and thoughtful as if the book were a piece of invaluable treasure. His eyes never left the pages. He read my book starting from the present back to the past. It seemed like ages had passed while he read my past in its entirety. The color outside the window darkened. I stared out of the window, completely lost in thought. I heard a sound and turned to look at Rafael. He seemed to have finished reading. The red book was on the table.

“I-I hope you understand wh-what it feels like-”

Before I could finish my sentence, he rushed to me and wrapped his arms around me. I was shocked at first, but then embraced it. Rafael was bold in demonstrating his emotions. He then broke away and started to apologize on his behavior, which I found unnecessary. I didn’t mind the hug at all. The sky outside was darker and darker. The mist was so heavy that I could not see the streetlights. Everything seemed so taciturn…Then a grievous thought hit me. I grabbed my watch and stared at it, troubled.

“I-I’m in trouble. The Curfew…will start in just two minutes. It-it’s impossible for m-me to go back…go back t-to my r-residence now…”

I started to move anxiously. If I went outside and was caught in the Curfew, I would be punished with fines and imprisonment. But if I did not go, where could I stay? I still needed to work tomorrow. Just as I was about to be taken down by panic, Rafael held my arm and spoke.

“Don’t worry about the Curfew. It’s dark and cold outside. Just stay here for the night, and it will be fine.”

He looked outside the window, drew the curtains, and sighed. The room wasn’t warm. This ancient residence building was deficient in heat insulation, making the harsh winters sometimes unbearable. It was going to be a long night.

It was very late. I was sitting on the bed, Rafael by my side, reading some paperwork. I was still incessantly writing in this book, of course, drawing and sketching the environment I was in. The room wasn’t spacious, only making place for a small desk, a chair, and a bed, which can barely fit both of us. Rafael had hung a lot of posters and paintings on the wall, which made it appear not so different from his art studio (what he called the painting room). I admired the artworks on the wall while scribbling mindlessly in my book. I turned and was surprised to see Rafael looking at me. I stared into his eyes through the mask’s eyeholes, and finally had the courage to break the silence.

“W-What paperwork are y-you reading? Work documents?” I asked out of curiosity,

Rafael laughed and put those papers away, placing them on the bedside table. I was curious of the laugh because I don’t think I joked.

“It’s not paperwork, it’s a book.” He stopped when met with my confused stare and continued to elaborate. “The book, in this sense, is something different from a book for documentation, like your diary. This kind of book is not for working for the Nation, but to communicate between minds across space and time. It can tell a story, explain some ideas, or teach a way of life. And of course, it’s banned by the Nation, but not as harsh as the bans on artworks.”

“T-That sounds wonderful…What are y-you reading?”

“The Myth of Sisyphus. A philosophical work about the absurdity of life. It also helps me to resolve some…issues I have.” He paused. “Realizing the absurdity of life is to doubt. To doubt our daily endeavors. Jonathan, have you ever questioned the way we are? Have you ever wondered why the Nation bans art? Why we must wear this mask?”

I was quite stupefied by his series of questions. I continued to look at his face, realizing how much the mask was blocking the view, making any analysis of emotions extremely hard. But he sounded so calm and collected, so I perceived he was just sharing his thoughts. I urged him to go on.

“The masks are one of the greatest inventions of the Nation, in my opinion. By using it, we are spared from the poisonous gas from the National Factory Complex, which my residence is painfully closely located by. But also, the masks block our faces. We cannot see each other. We cannot understand each other. The masks block the transmission of emotions and thoughts. Without that feeling, we are made into something non-human.”

“Then th-there is only o-one command we res-respond to…the Nation. It h-has not come to m-me as a surprise. It f-felt so usual.”

“To doubt is to live, to rebel is to exist.”

As I was feverishly documenting our conversation down in my notebook, I felt something reaching close to my face. I stopped the movement of the pen and looked up. Rafael, tentatively reaching out a hand to my face. Under the yellow dim lights, I could hardly make out his expression. He asked if I allowed him to take off my mask. I was stung by his suggestion but didn’t want to refuse. I was also curious about his face, a thought that would put me to death under the Nation. It was a mingled emotion: The terror, confusion, panic, curiosity, and relief blended together to forge this miraculous yet unwarranted moment. I nodded in allowance.

I could feel his hands fumbling on the sides of my head, trying to disassemble the complex strips and knots without breaking them. I shut my eyes automatically. Then I felt a fresh smell of causticity in my nostrils and the suppressive cold air on my face. I choked and coughed violently at the smell, covering my mouth and nose with my hands. Then I opened my tear-blurred eyes and looked at Rafael’s face. There sat the artist, his tousled dirty blond hair cascading down sides of his face, almost covering his eyes. His skin so pallid and lips so colorless that the warm lights could not even tint them. I stared into his eyes. They were hazel, green dyed with yellow and brown. Despite his feeble and somewhat slovenly appearance, the eyes were as clear and pellucid like summertime lakes. It was my first time in my memory to ever observe a person’s face other than my own. But the longer I examine every feature of his face, the more the face morphs and twists into some unobservable shapes. His face was familiar…buried somewhere deep in my memory.

“You…aged so much, Jonathan. I-I still cannot grasp how much devastation memory disorders can do to a human.”

Those glassy eyes were filled with melancholy. I could not help but think if he observed my youthful face, he would be shocked on how age had tormented the person before him…The spiral of time shredded itself when the automobile smashed into my body on that road. The people in my memory were forever nihilated. The lights beamed; the wheels screamed as I ducked. A cold winter night. Blinding lights. I tripped over, someone dragged the people out of the basement. The darkness seeping into my life as they swung open the basement door. They rushed in…aggravated pain on my back head, more and more uncontrollable thoughts. I might faint.

Rafael, looking at my troubled face, placed his hand over mine. The accident seemed so real. The piercing shrieks. The pain started to creep in once again. It was all chaos. Thoughts in my brain that wouldn’t capitulate. They would stay with my forever. I hung my head low. My long dark hair curtained my face. He brushed it away. The outside was in utter darkness.  

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02450074 Day 05.

To do: Fifth day after promotion. Read the Daily Mail. Go to Rafael’s residence after work.

I opened my eyes and was bewildered by the environment. The bed, the room, the walls, so unfamiliar. After quickly reading my book, it seemed like I stayed in Rafael’s residence. I stood up and walked out of the room and saw Rafael sitting on the chair looking outside the window while drinking from his cup. I quickly greeted him. Without the mask, his smile was much clearer and happier. He gave me another cup, and I once again tasted the fragrant liquid. It was a surprisingly good rest at Rafael’s residence. With several sleepless nights before, last night finally gave me some strength. He decided to take the underground train with me to work, because I was unfamiliar with the region. Even though I explained to him how I drew the entire underground train map on my book, he still insisted. The sad artist seemed to be much happier this morning.

Working was just as painful as yesterday. The greetings with Harper, the morning talk with Cymbeline. The latter looked so relieved when I told her I felt much better.

“Well, that’s surely good news, Jonathan! You know I don’t have those painkillers anymore, so I cannot save you when you collapse in pain.” The second half of the sentence was whispered with a much lower volume. We both smiled. She took another sip from the stimulus drink while placing her hand on my shoulder. I heard her sigh. What is troubling her so much? Please don’t be me or anything related to me, I thought, I don’t want people to be troubled over me anymore.

Reagan took me down the elevator, like every day else. The vehicle crackled as it descended at a terrifying speed. I could feel my legs melting into liquids. Everything was so metallic and cold, lifeless like a skeleton of a dead animal. As I walked down the hallway, everything twisted under my eyes; the floor seemed slanted, and the ceiling was collapsing down. I fell onto the frigid steel ground and covered my head. It was so loud. Something was exploding. The distant screams. The automobile rushed towards me with those lights. My eyes burnt with tears as I saw the world splashed with crimson.

Then I felt someone grabbing me by my arm. It was distant, I could hardly feel the grip. I must be dead. Are the doctors transporting my body? Then the grip was harder, I could feel I was lifted from the ground. A familiar mask. The red sharp edges and a pair of dark irises behind the eyeholes. A female, feverishly shouting something. I blinked. Once, twice, I could see the white room again…

“Jonathan! Jonathan! Just…just say something if you can hear me-”

It was Reagan. I muttered something to her as the vertigo slowly diminished. She seemed a bit relieved. There were no explosions or collapsing ceilings. The only thing left was the terrible headache. Reagan seemed troubled and angry. It seemed like I had offended her again. She carried me the rest of the way to the workplace.

As I was lying weakly on the surgery chair, I could hear Reagan shouting at Dr. Stewart. My muffled senses did not make her sound less aggressive. She was saying to halt something, to stop bringing me down to this place. But Dr. Stewart seemed unmoved. Her arguing added another layer of trouble in my chaotic brain. Before I could make out more of their conversation, with a sharp pain on my arm I fell into unconsciousness.

It was the streets of District VI again. The mist was too dark and heavy that night and day could not be distinguished. There was some moisture and a sharp smell of acid in the air, probably due to yesterday’s rainfall. The acidic drops of water from the National Factory Complex smoke could probably cause some serious health problems, so I was very lucky to have decided to stay at Rafael’s residence. The thoughts could hardly be grasped; the memory erasing seemed to have cut my threads of consciousness. Referencing my to-do list, it seemed like it was time to go to Rafael’s residence.

It was cold. Extremely cold. The lack of light in the streets made it almost impossible to navigate through. I tried my best to hide myself from the blindingly terrible lights of the automobile while rushing my way through the metallic labyrinth of streets. The nausea and pain were now incessant, always accompanying me through my day. And then I saw—

Through an automobile’s pair of malicious white eyes, I felt someone grabbed me by my arm, dragging me so hard that I fell onto the ground and my palms bled. The nails digging into my skin. Gunshots. Screaming. Panic. They were white, faceless figures, holding guns and needles. I ran. Metallic chains and shattering glass. Another shot. I saw the basement of the National Technology Institute again, the metallic floor, the steel tubes, the cold needles injecting something into my arm. They squeeze the tubes into my-

Then there was a deafening scream. And nothing.  

The next thought I had was waking up in a white bed in a white room. I forced my eyes shut at the extremely bright lights that dazzled me as I tried to raise my hands to cover them. Then I found my hands tied onto the bed. Panic shot through me like an arrow. I opened my eyes and found Reagan, Dr. Stewart, and some doctors standing beside me in white, many of them busy writing something.

“Jonathan, can you hear me? How are you feeling?”

I answered and was surprised how hoarse and shattered my voice sounded. I asked Reagan what time it is. It was the night of Day 05. I missed Rafael’s appointment. Before I could trouble over this fact, Reagan went on.

“You’re lucky to be here. No broken bones or anything of a big injury. Just some minor side-effects of serious shock. You were hit by an automobile on the road in the East Peripheral. The driver reported that you collapsed onto the ground in the middle of the road. Can you still recall what happened then? Can you tell us what happened? We really need this information for…judging this case, and also for your work at the Department.”

Reagan went on babbling about the accident and how much she needed the information while I asked the doctors to loosen the ties to read my book. I flipped through the pages and selectively read them out loud to Reagan. I could not help but notice some weird noises when she spoke, as if her lips were broken. Through the eyeholes of her mask, I could see bruises on her left eye. Is she severely hurt? Did she engage in physical violence with another person? Maybe she just fell off…

“So, it was your syndrome. I’m so sorry. Has it worsened after the…um…promotion? …No, never mind that question. How are you feeling now? You don’t have to worry about work, we will grant you one day off. Just one day, don’t be greedy, and don’t expect too much care from the Department. But—”

Before Reagan could finish, someone rushed into the room, causing a fumble between the doctors. Reagan turned her head but was pushed to the side. To be honest, I wasn’t so surprised when I discovered who it was. Judging from the footsteps I can easily tell it was just a worried Cymbeline.

“Jonathan. Jonathan! You’re awake. Are you okay?” She immediately walked to the bed, although in a more collected and calm manner. From the corner of my eye, I could see Reagan’s annoyed expression. But there was also fear in her eye. She was probably thinking how possibly Cymbeline could had got in.

The doctors and Reagan left the room shortly when Cymbeline entered. I talked to her about the accident and what I wrote on my book. Although I still managed to hide a few confusing details, I revealed much more to her than to Reagan. I never trusted the female manager at the office but did enjoy working with her a lot. The white room—probably a healthcare center—was much warmer than my or Rafael’s residence. A tube of clear liquid, lifted with a metal stand next to my bed, was flowing into my skin with a needle inserted onto my hand. Cymbeline managed to find a lying armchair to sit next to me. I stared at the blank white ceiling while drowning in my thoughts. The outlashing immaculate whiteness surrounding me suffocated my dreams as I fell asleep to the silent humming of the fans.

After some time, I opened my eyes reluctantly and found Cymbeline looking at me.

“For how…how long h-had I been s-sleeping?”

“Just half an hour or so. How are you feeling?”

“S-Still tired. But m-much better now.” I managed to force a smile despite the agony of my head and my left arm. I reached over to my book and started writing. Then I realized I hadn’t meet Rafael in his residence. He must be very worried.

“Cymbeline, I-I need to…t-telephone someone.”

Cymbeline gave me a cautious and confused stare. She probably could not imagine a person I could possibly call, especially during times like this. I wasn’t very good with people, except her I probably don’t have anyone considered as a friend. So, I continued to explain.

“Look, it-it’s just that I-I missed an appointment…I need t-to tell him…”

Cymbeline probably capitulated to my troubled expression, so she quickly went out to get a mobile telephone for me. It didn’t take me too long to find Rafael’s number documented on one of my book’s pages. He almost answered in no-time, as if he was waiting for me to call.

“Hello? Jonathan! You didn’t come today…What happened?”

“I-I got hit by an a-automobile. I’m n-now in the Healthcare Center, feeling much better. I-I probably cannot g-go to your-your residence…”

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s fine. How did you get hit again? Is it your syndrome?”

I sighed and explained to him the best I could. Cymbeline stared at me doubtfully, probably wondering who was on the other end of the phone. But hearing my relaxed and friendly tone probably let her guard down a bit, because whenever I looked at her, she smiled a bit. I continued to talk to Rafael for some time, then I grew tired, and our conversation ended rather quickly.

“Well, I hope you get well soon, Jonathan. I probably won’t be able to go to the Healthcare Center to see you due to…well…obvious reasons. Talk to you later!”

Rafael hung up on the other end of the telephone. Cymbeline took the mobile telephone from me to return it. I lied on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t before long that I fell into oblivion.

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02460074 Day 06.

To do: Sixth day after promotion. You’re in the Healthcare Center because you got hit yesterday. Read the Daily Mail. Call Rafael on the telephone (if possible).

White. All white. It was so bright. It hurt terribly. Some red stains on their white coat. People…terrible people covered in white, standing under the bright fluorescent lights holding something. An injector. The needle…I could not move. I was sitting on a chair. Was I tied up? I saw some familiar faces beside me, all on white chairs. Who are they? They look so familiar, as if their names are on the tip of my tongue. The people in white said something maliciously. I shouted to them in return. Then a vicious laugh. The room, the chairs, the people disappeared. The only thing that’s left was…An automobile rushed to me with incredible speed. The screaming. The blinding lights. It was crashing into me…

I woke up in cold sweats. Panting and breathing heavily, it took me several minutes to figure out where I was. Automobile. Hit by an automobile. In Healthcare Center. So white…

Someone was beside me, asleep while leaning onto my bed, an arm on my legs. Dark hair covering half of her facemask. I brushed the hair away, and Cymbeline woke up. She quickly rubbed her eyes and asked how I was feeling. I shrugged.

“W-What is the t-time?”

“Let me see…four hours after midnight. Continue sleeping, the night’s still long.”

“A-Are you not g-going to work soon?”

“I’ve still got two hours. If you don’t want to sleep, we can talk.”

We passed the next two hours with chatting. Of course, it was mostly Cymbeline talking while I listened and wrote in my book. She joked how the way we talked made her feel like she was being interrogated. It gave us a good laugh, but sorrow still managed to creep in. I studied her profile while we talked. Most of it was covered by a dark blue mask, with two pointy ear-like shapes on each side and a sharp beak. It resembled my own mask in some uncanny ways. Through the eyeholes I saw two tired, yellow eyes with long dark eyelashes. Her dark hair looked so smooth…so much like mine.

“I remember the first day you came to the Technology Institute. Do you still remember? It was the bright day. The sky was full of light, a kind of luminescent grey. The sun—the sun! it sounds so foreign—was like a giant orange fireball hanging on the sky. You were pretty startled when I talked to you, like a frightened animal, just like you were young…”

The last sentence was accompanied by a small giggle. But it sounded so eccentric and nonsensical, how could she know? Please don’t tell me all the people around me were already friends with me before the accident! Why didn’t they reveal to me earlier?

“You looked so troubled. You’ve changed so much, the way you talk, the way you sit, the way you smile…You were like a blank slate. But your look hasn’t changed that much, still pretty nonchalant toward your appearance. You do remember the sunsets, right? We looked at the sunset together. What a miracle it was! A giant burning ball of flame slowly descending the skyline of the city, dying the sky into a heavy crimson. The glass windows from neighboring buildings reflecting the golden sunrays. No pollution, no National Factory Complex, no smoke. When we could still see the sun. These years…ten years passed like a fever dream.”

She sighed and flicked her eyes to look at me. I was still busy writing. Then when I finished the last sentence, I looked up and she gave me a pleasant smile.

“Cymbeline…I-I cannot remember m-most of the th-thing you’ve told me. I’ve b-been having d-dreams and intrusive thoughts lately…a-an unhealthy amount, actually. I-I can’t even think anymore…”

“How about you document them down in your diary? I don’t think those thoughts are useless. Maybe it can calm your mind. If you can’t talk about it, write about it. We can discuss it together.” She gave me a pat on the back and an encouraging smile. Then she left the room for work.

The rest of the day was surprisingly dull. I had nothing to do but to write in my book. I let myself sunk into my whirlpool of consciousness, fully engulfed by it. I was controlled by something that I was made of. Am I the captain of the ship I call “myself”? I wondered maybe Cymbeline had a point after all. I should document the thoughts down.

I woke up after sleeping for an unknown duration. There were never any dreamless nights after I went into the Healthcare Center. What did I dream of? A white room. Always a white room, pallidly lit by some bright lights. There were metallic tools. I saw someone being dragged on the floor, leaving a trail of red as a white figure violently dumps the body into a hole in the ground. I coughed. My white shirt was dyed crimson. The white slowly disassembled into red, blue, and green. Up-side-down. A sharp pain in my cranium. The hallway of National Technology Institute. So cold, so distant. I tripped over, blinded by the blooming flowers of explosions. Darkness. An asphalt road. I ran, not able to catch up with my breath. I rushed forward, dashing through the crowd while looking behind. Someone was chasing me. My heart was erupting with anxiety and fear. It was always when an automobile hit me on the road, and I woke up. Every dream ends in that way. The shattered dreams quickly diminished when I opened my eyes. They were like smoke, shapeless and difficult to grasp.

 Everything was painful. Thanks to my to-do list, I did not forget to dial Rafael, who quickly picked up the telephone in no time.

The conversation was short. It seemed Rafael was eager to end the call. He did not talk much, and his words were carefully selected and meticulously organized in an out-of-character way. I wondered what caused that.

Cymbeline came in the night and decided to stay with me, despite my effort on persuading her that I was fine being alone. My terrible excuses did not stop her protectiveness. The windowless white room with a light unable to be turned off made it impossible to determine the time. I fell asleep quickly and swam in more unsettling dreams.

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02470074 Day 07.

To do: Seventh day after promotion. You’re in the Healthcare Center because you got hit two days before. Read the Daily Mail. You will leave the Healthcare Center today.

Cymbeline was sitting by my side, drinking her daily stimulus drink while reading some paperwork. She turned to me when she saw me awake.

“Good morning. Feeling better?”

I nodded and took the glass of water she handed to me. I took down several gulps as the cold liquid ran through my burning throat. The resulted pain in my neck was like someone strangling me. After some violent coughing I recollected myself and started to read the Daily Mail, which was no less dull than yesterday. My consciousness started to wonder off the lines of “How I Made My Nation” to last night’s dreams. It was always a white room, white figures, white lights, and automobiles…

Reagan came into my room, breaking the silence between me and Cymbeline. I sat up and placed the newspaper to the side while Cymbeline stood up, trying her best to walk away from Reagan.

“Jonathan, it seems like you have fully recovered from the accident. You know, the Nation’s healthcare resources are precious, so you must leave the Healthcare center today. Also, please attend work tomorrow.”

I saw Cymbeline glaring at the red-haired female while helping me to pack up my belongings. I got off the white bed. The instance my feet touched the ground I felt myself fainting as vertigo hit me. I grabbed onto the edge of the bed and stabilized myself. The pain in my head was digging my soul out of my body. Cymbeline quickly grabbed me by my arm. We walked out of the Healthcare Center together.

We stood beneath a streetlight under its dim and pale light. The dark smoke canopied the sky, smothering any natural sunlight. Cymbeline leaned onto the streetlight while fumbling in her pocket. She finally got a cigarette and lit it up, puffing the white smoke. The orange light from the tip of the cigarette added some vividness to the grey landscape. I stared at the morphing line of fabric-like gas as it slowly twisted while playing with the air. A small breeze blew the whiteness apart, dissipating it into the grey surroundings. The streetlight above us flickered. The streets were so empty and lifeless. Cymbeline turned and looked at me.

“It’s getting late. Where are you going now?”

“I-I….will go to the East Peripheral t-to meet someone…”

Cymbeline raised an eyebrow. She seemed dubious of my destination but didn’t trouble to ask more. The white smoke continues to rise under the light.

“Do you need me to accompany you there?”

I shook my head. Cymbeline sighed and continued to smoke. “Well then, goodbye for now. I will see you tomorrow at work. Hopefully you will feel better. Don’t stress yourself out too much, you know, things will be fine.” Then she waved to me and walked down another end of the street, merging with the dark foreboding smoke.

Rafael looked delighted when he opened the door. We sat at the table while drinking the fragrant liquid from the cups. I organized my past notes and discovered how utterly chaotic they were. Paragraphs written in the wrong place, incorrect spelling and grammar, incoherent sentences…it really seemed like my logic was destroyed during my time at the Healthcare Center. Did that automobile really hit me? If so, why didn’t I have any physical injuries? Why didn’t they let me stay longer at the Center? What if it was not real…? All in my brain. The first time, ten years ago, the automobile left me with this broken brain. Now ten years later, I was hit again. But it all seemed less real…

I covered my face mask with my hands. The thoughts were eating me up from the inside. Then I felt Rafael touching my hands as he slowly guided them away from my face. Everything seemed terrible. The physical pain and mental agony were too much to bear.

“Rafael, w-was I really hit by t-the automobile? Was i-it real?”

“What does your brain tell you?”

“That’s the p-problem. My brain t-told me it was true, and I-I have been reliving that m-moment for days…but everyone e-else, they act a-as if it wasn’t true. No bruises and n-no injuries…how i-is that ‘being hit’?”

I drank from the cup and recollected myself. I needed to tell someone about my problems. It seemed like Rafael was the only choice…

“Look, y-you might think I-I’m insane, and to b-be honest I am, but listen. I-I think my syndrome worsened. There a-are always h-headaches and anxiety. My consciousness seemed t-to be more t-tangled. In the p-previous years, I-I lived with m-my problems relatively smoothly, b-but now it…it seems t-to be out of control…”

Rafael listened closely. He seemed to be deep in thoughts. “Is there any event that can possibly cause this worsening of syndrome? It’s very unlikely this happened by chance. It’s okay, if you find anything in particular, we can solve it.”

I flipped through my book. Anything…everything. The underground. The National Technology Institute. Reagan. Cymbeline. The windows. The streets. Was it the automobile? No, it shouldn’t be the automobile. The headache. The painkillers? The Director’s white office. The basement. Needles. Screaming out…I could not—

Rafael’s eyes widened as he saw me collapsing onto the table. He rushed over and carried me to another room where I could lie down on the bed. He sat beside me, anxious and worried.

The surgery chair and the white room. It wasn’t the automobile. Rafael’s maskless face. His eyes staring into mine. Was he sad? Anxious? Disappointed? His hands. The paint. Art Underground…Was it called that? The Nation. The Director…so white. So pale. So frightening…The myriad of dreams that could not be understood…The white figures…the memory, memory, memory, memory—The Memory Erasing Procedure. The chair, the room, the panic. In amok. Out of control. The Memory Erasing Procedure…The promotion. The Promotion. Is that it? No…it didn’t change that much, but it might. The automobile. Real or not real? I could feel air leaving and entering my lungs and I grasped for air.

“I can’t…I can’t t-think of anything. It’s all g-gone now.”

I sighed as the panic slowly faded away. The hyper-activeness of my brain was so well documented in my book as I scribbled down words in the mist of anxiety. Out of the window I saw the sky, no less dark than during daytime. The dark smoke really smothered all natural light. I remained still, flat on my back on Rafael’s bed, less consumed by panic but still extremely uneasy with the experiences at the Healthcare Center.

Rafael was sitting beside me. The silhouette of his delicate figure, hazel eyes filled with sorrow. His eyes were so bold and candid, yet so fond and fragile. He was maskless, dirty brown hair cascading down his shoulders. The yellow rim light was a halo around the seemingly secular male. The flip of a page. The stroke of a pencil. The flicker of a light. All of this forged the present tense. The past I could never return to, in figure, in him. The endless river of time had washed away all markings of the history, through the scream of an automobile. No more sorrow and fright, no more pain and illness, only the darkness in my heart remains.

“It’s fine. Memories are fragile. They are like butterflies with burning wings. They are like the light refracted from broken glass. They are like the rainbow colors on the surfaces of bubbles. You see them, you cherish them, but they disappear so quickly.”

“So well p-put. Must be a-all that reading I b-believe.” I said jokingly but honestly. I could picture the things Rafael’s talking about.

“Memories are like dreams.” Rafael looked me into my eyes, one hand on the side of my face. Light flickered in his crystalline eyes. “They felt so real at first, but time washed away their colors. Slowly the red, blue, green faded into grey. You woke up from a long and vivid dream, then you realized—it was all gone. It was all in your brain.”

                                             To do list completed.

Date: 02510074 Day 01.

To do: Eighth day after promotion. Workday. Go to National Technology Institute to work.

The ceiling was less bright and the lights less blinding when I opened my eyes. I looked around at the environment, which resembled nothing of the Healthcare Center. After a quick morning reading of my book, I realized I was in Rafael’s residence again.

The morning was no less unusual. I rode on the underground train to the National Technology Institute. Upon entering the building, I did remember to say good morning to the orange-masked female. Her name was on the tip of my tongue, but I could not remember. The troubling thoughts were no less intense then yesterday or the day before yesterday, I felt my brain could burst and explode at any time.

There I was again. Reagan, still that stern looking, dragged me down to the basement of the National Technology Institute. The steel railings surrounded me from every side, strangling my hope of escape. The iron smell and coldness in the air made me sick. I held onto the slim expectation that work would end soon. But being pushed onto that chair, needles piercing through my skin…I could bear it no more. The freezing wind. The emotionless faces. White figures. The blinding lights and unsettling dreams. There must be a way to end it all. Reagan seemed worried but didn’t say anything to comfort me. To be honest, no words coming out of that female’s mouth could be comforting.

We were approaching the end of the hallway. My heart raced as I saw the thick metal door. I could not work today. No more memory erasing from this place. No more bright white lights. No more headache and vertigo. No more pain and fright. I forcefully freed myself from Reagan’s grasp and swung my arm and ran. I heard Reagan sigh. A sorrowful sigh. Is she mocking my attempt for freedom? Or is she pitying me? Rage and fright overcame me as I assembled my remaining strength to speed up my steps. But Reagan easily caught on to me and grabbed me, although less forceful than what I did to her.

“Jonathan, where are you going? Just…just work on the chip. I promise everything be fine.”

And that was it. Another futile attempt at freedom. Another day of my memory forced to be erased. I would be gone.

The room seemed familiar again. Colorful and full of details. Some posters and peeled off wallpaper. The warm yellow lights. A cup on the table, filled with some fragrant liquid. I took a sip from it. The flavor was miraculous and…I remembered. So, I was in Rafael’s residence again. I probably finished work now, for I forgot to document my walk from the National Technology Institute to this place. Probably due to the promotion or anything else I do not know. The pain in my head was intense, and still is intense. I can feel scars forming on my cranium, imaginary ones in my consciousness. I saw the white room again, the blinding lights that pierced my eyeballs directly into my brain. The shadowy white figures…

I heard Rafael calling my name, but I was too tired to respond. The vertigo hit me again. My senses were numb. My body was gone. There was nothing left, only a brain floating in the dark void, morphing under the pressure. That is not me. I saw the familiar masks floating near me. Those threads of thoughts, slowly forming into iron spikes, transfix my body from inside, shattering it into smithereens. Then they softened into a pile of viscous liquid, morphing into terrifying masks of faces, salivating like wild animals, fangs and claws gripping into my heart as it desperately tries to pump more blood to keep me alive. I suddenly sat up on my bed and ran to the bathroom. The next thought I had told me that I was vomiting violently into the sink.

Through my blurred vision I could see the crimson in the sink. My hair dangled in front of my face as I sensed someone grabbed me by my arms. The pain cracked my head open as I stepped into the void. I fell. Darkness. I saw it, blood dripping onto the pages. Then nothing came, my vision went blank, and I

The candle is burning silently by my side. I closed the diary for a break. Another gulp of burning liquor down my throat. It is all too much, isn’t it? After he threw himself off that building, my life hasn’t been the same. I should have hanged myself after that, if not because of this book. Who was the last one, beside me and him, to read this diary of misery? It was Cymbeline, wasn’t it? Must be her. But she didn’t get a chance to read the whole thing…Just some excerpts. I still remember vividly that horrible afternoon…

Through the mist of panic, I quickly grabbed the already unconscious man and lay him down on the bed. Jonathan was still breathing rather lightly, his eyes remained shut stubbornly. I went to get his blood-stained mask and diary. Lucky the cover of that book was already red, so the blood wasn’t that obvious and hideous. Now what should I do now? I cannot save his life alone, got to get into contact of Art Underground. But I do need someone to help to move him…I flipped through the book quickly but carefully, and upon the first page I found an index of important people and their numbers.

Cymbeline, colleague at National Technology Institute, (can be trusted), number: 1-33634620-#2.

I was stunned. Colleague at National Technology Institute? Jonathan got to be kidding me. It seemed like he really didn’t remember. But I knew too well who Cymbeline was. I quickly dialed her, who stormed into my apartment mere minutes after answering the phone.

“If it isn’t because of Jonathan and the fact that I will soon die under the hands of the Nation, I will never come to help you. I didn’t forget what your organization did to him, okay?” Cymbeline ranted at me as she lit up a cigarette. I tried my best to shove away the annoying smoke and the intrusive smell. “Now get to the real thing. What is it with Jonathan?”

To that, I handed her the red book.

It was hard to describe her face when she finished reading Jonathan’s diary. I sat across the table from her, staring at her face out of curiosity. Cymbeline expression was a mixture of fear, anger, sorrow, and shock. She put the diary meticulously onto the desk, like it was a piece of delicate and priceless artwork. The woman never appreciated my existence, I could tell, but she was too worried about Jonathan to make a fuss. I poured some tea into the cup Jonathan had used before and pushed it to her. She raised an eyebrow.

“Jonathan used this cup before, didn’t he? Don’t you fool me, Rafael.”

“How did you know he used it?”

“The same reason why you chose to call me when Jonathan started vomiting blood and fainted.” Cymbeline flipped her eyes at me as a ridicule to my seemingly obvious question. “Because I’m his older sister, and you know too well. We lived together for years before he got ‘kidnapped’ by you and your organization. I know everything about him, and I guarantee I know more than you do.” She pointed a finger at me accusingly.

“That’s what I call siblings energy. Also, he joined Art Underground himself.” I let out a mocking laugh as my palms were beside my face, capitulating to her accuses. Fooling with Jonathan’s older sister was always that satisfying. “Now we need to put aside this past conflict. I don’t care about the Art Underground or the Nation now, I just want to save Jonathan’s dear life. We need to do something to treat his memory syndrome and the long-lasting effects of the automobile accident. Act quick or he would die.”

Before I could show Cymbeline to the room where Jonathan was lying, she stood up in a seemingly violent movement. I shun away in shock of her anger.

“Automobile accident? You still think it was an automobile accident? Stop lying for your organization, Rafael! You know too well what caused all of this, don’t you?”

I stared into her raged eyes, confused at this accuse.

“What do you mean? Not an automobile accident? That was what the Art Underground told me! His organization was taken down by the Nation a decade ago, but Jonathan got hit before that, didn’t he? He survived the Nation but could not survive the automobile crashing into him…”

Cymbeline calmed down a little. She shook her head and looked at me, still refusing to drink my tea. “Okay, sorry that I made a mistake. I thought you and your organization knew what really happened to him.” The way she put Art Underground as “my organization” revealed how she was still holding a grudge after all these years. “I discovered some rather unsettling facts about Jonathan out of my colleague’s mouth. The Nation really has a way of hiding things.”

I encouraged her to go on. And through her description of a seemingly naïve event, I realized what kind of hell me and everyone with me were in. Thus, Cymbeline started her account of what really happened to my dearest beloved person.

It was two days ago, the day when Jonathan was escorted into the Healthcare Center after the “automobile accident.” When Reagan returned to our Department Office after sending Jonathan down to the basement for that “innocent promotion”, I approached her.

“Reagan, I have an important matter to talk to you about Jonathan and the promotion. Spare a minute or two, will you?’

Reagan gave me an ugly look. She would probably hate what I was trying to say, and she had been evading Jonathan’s issue for days. The woman’s terror and fright were well written in her irises.

“Now what do you want, Cymbeline? I understand you are close to Jonathan, but it is not for you to worry about his work for the Nation.’

“You don’t seem to understand, don’t you? I’m not giving you a choice. I am demanding you to tell me what happened to Jonathan.’

“There is nothing to worry about Jonathan. He is completely fine with the new occupation in our Department.” It almost seemed like Reagan was persuading herself that what she was saying is true. “Now, I wish you to return to your work, Cymbeline, and stop meddling with matters out of your duty.”

That was the last straw. Her condescending attitude triggered my anger. Reagan was clearly hiding something. The flicker of her eyes and the tremble of her hands told another story, one different from her words. I grabbed her by the arm and swung her into a storage room. She nearly fell to the ground to my violent movement, but quickly regained balance. I walked in and slammed the door shut behind me. Reagan was now in hysteria; I could tell from her expanded irises that the terror and anger were consuming her.

“What do you want from me, Cymbeline? Are you mentally crazy? You are violating my National Citizen Rights! Now I demand you to let me out of this room right now!”

“Two ways to get out of this room. One, tell me honestly what happened to Jonathan. Two, walk over my dead body.”

“Are you threatening me, Cymbeline? I hope you don’t forget I’m still the manager of this office, who has very close ties to the Director. I’m more powerful than you, Cymbeline. You are just a mere worker for this Institute. You are nothing compared to me! Now show me some respect, or I will—”

Before Reagan could finish, I swung my fist and smashed it into her face. She fell to the ground with the force and leaned against the wall, hissing in pain. A stream of warm blood flow down her chin from her nose. Her red mask was thrown to the other side of the room as the woman tried to cover her blood-stained face hysterically. Her dirty red hair was all over her face. She was shaking in fear. So pathetic, I looked down to her in pity. Her face was no less ugly than I imagined. She nearly screamed when I approached her.

“Still think you are more powerful than me, Reagan? You are nothing but a puppet of the Upperpeople. Now tell me what happened to Jonathan, or you will die an ugly death under my fists.”

Reagan nearly jumped out of her skin in horror at my words, but she was still pretty determined.

“No! I cannot tell you!” Reagan screamed. “If I tell you, they will destroy me! And also you, Cymbeline, you cannot escape their torture! Please just let me go, that way we can all live. And I promise you Jonathan will be fine.”

I laughed mockingly. “I do not care what happened to you or me. You are not leaving this room before you tell me the truth. I have been observing Jonathan for weeks. After that damn promotion, his mental state was devastated. I know too well the pain he’s suffering every day, while you and the Director and the Upperpeople make an ugly use out of him. His pain is my pain, and don’t you fool around with me. Now be quick with your words before this hit you,” I positioned my fist near her face, which triggered a frightened gasp. She really seemed to be conflicted. The tremble of her body revealed her intense terror at my figure. The blood stopped dripping from her nose as a bruise was forming near her eye. I did hit her badly but did not feel apologetic for this pitiful person.

After a long silence and mental preparation, she finally capitulated.

“Fine, fine! If you desire this much the demise of you and me, then I will tell you.”

There in that stingy and dusty storage room, she confessed one of the greatest crimes of the Nation. “The Supreme National Leader has a special interest in experiments on one’s brain. The Nation relies on heavy espionage and surveillance to maintain the peace and nationalism in the citizens’ hearts, but that comes with a heavy financial cost.” Reagan sighed, as if she could not find the proper words. “So, they need to find another…way. Through the ingenious neurological experiments, they found out that it was theoretically possible to…engineer one’s brain. Like, change the brain’s composition of something. The Supreme Leader wanted to use this technology to implant the Nation’s philosophy into everyone’s brain. So, everyone could be a well-behaving National Citizen from birth, economical and efficient.

“They started with animal experiments and succeeded. But animals were not humans. They needed human experimental samples to see if they could still function in society and work of the Nation…Very difficult to find. It must be hard for the Nation too...”

I nearly lashed out on her at her empathy with the Nation but not the people who were being experimented on. But I suppressed my anger to let her continue.

“There were a lot of political criminals to choose from, but experiments were not that smooth, and they always needed more people. The Nation had been hunting down a secret, rebel organization called Art Underground for years. They were traitors who produced illegal art and materials in an attempt to overthrow the National Government. The Nation hated those criminals for good reason, and I think they deserve it—”

“I don’t care what you think. Get me to the topic, now. What happened to Jonathan?” I glared at her words. Dare talked about Jonathan like that again, I will punch you to death.

“Okay, okay! What I just said are background information…I-I will talk about Jonathan now. Please, just be patient. So, you see, I know it is surprising for you too, and I believe he must have been brainwashed by anti-national thinking…but Jonathan was…was a part of the Art Underground a decade years ago. I don’t know for how long he had been in it. Then ten years ago the District VI Art Underground, the one Jonathan was in, was besieged and eliminated by the National Police. All captured hostages were sent to the National Biolab in District X.”

I kind of guessed what happened to him later. A Biolab. Cold sweats started creeping on my skin at my thought. It was so terrible.

“The Nation experimented on the hostages. They had done stuff to their brain through surgeries…I wasn’t sure. There were like twenty or thirty people with Jonathan in that lab, many of whom unfortunately suffered after the experiment. According to a report, they were like, either paralyzed or disabled…However, there are a few lucky survivors. Their brain wasn’t damaged enough to…to disable them. Jonathan is one of them. The others I do not know, they didn’t tell me…they said it’s confidential information.

“The survivors were released back into society as part of the experiment. The Nation gave them jobs, like in the National Technology Institute, and ask people to supervise them. And yes, I am Jonathan’s supervisor. I document his acts and report them to the Director…Just to be clear, my job is to protect and look over him, not to harm him! Please don’t mistake me…”

“So, Jonathan’s memory syndrome, which he cannot remember things properly, his speech deficiency, his erased past, all of that suffering is from the experiments of National Biolab then? As a punishment for being in the Art Underground?”

“Y-Yes…I know it’s difficult to grasp…”

“How about the automobile accident then?”

“It was cover-up for the Nation’s experiments...They don’t want to uncover the experiment yet, for it is still in its early stages.”

“If I guessed it right, the that stupid promotion has something important to do with the experiment on Jonathan, right?”

“Yes…You know, it’s been ten years, the experts at National Biolab, to meet the requirements of The Supreme Leader, started a new series of experiment on him to…further modify his brain functions. But that kind of went downhill…I wouldn’t say the experiments are successful this time…”

“The Little Seeker chip project and Memory Erasing Procedure are all nonsense then, they made it up, didn’t they? Just to further torture him? You know this all along, don’t you? I saw him living through pure hell. Every day, the headaches, the hallucinations, the syndromes, seeing him so helpless and you are the cause of it all.” The anger was too difficult to suppress. The red-haired female let out a frightened scream as she sensed the danger in my words.

“No, no, listen! I don’t want them to do it, I tried to persuade the Director and the people at the Biolab. They asked me to do it. I didn’t know it could do such a huge damage on him…I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I tried to apologize to him…Please, you know I don’t have a choice. It’s orders from the Nation…”

I sighed. Reagan was nothing but a puppet for sure, and a condescending one. But who could blame a puppet? The blame was on the puppeteers. The woman was now shedding tears, which got mixed with the blood. The sobs filled the room. I thought about Jonathan for a second. Where was he now? Probably tied up in that dungeon, getting wires and needles injected into his brain while he was all unconscious of it. There was never an automobile accident. All lies, lies piled on lies. I lurched over and gave Reagan a piece of cloth for her to clean her face. After cleaning up, the woman put on her mask and left the room in a hurry. I did not even try to stop her. Now how could I reveal all this to Jonathan? That poor one would probably be devastated…I would reveal to him when I saw the time fit. So no, Jonathan shouldn’t know about all this.

Across me, Cymbeline finally took one small sip of my tea from Jonathan’s cup. “So that’s it. No damn automobile accident. No promotion. All is just the Nation using Jonathan as a lab mouse. An experimental sample. Inhumane experiments that left permanent scares on him. No different from tortures. And yes, the Nation is hunting me down now. I will soon be dead, for how soon I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. An outlaw, just like you.” The acridness in her tone was replaced by sorrow.

I sat in silence with her. I was no less shocked and devastated by this fact. It had been a popular rumor in Art Underground about the experiments, but hearing it was real was something entirely different. The pain Jonathan must have gone through…That horrifying memory in his subconsciousness were revealed through the repeatedly described white rooms, needles, screams, and bright lights in his diary. The nightmares. The blood. Finally, I let her into my room, where Jonathan was lying, almost lifelessly. I stared at his profile. Dark hair, sharp nose. Shut eyes surrounded with deep blackness from lack of sleep. Long eyelashes. Thin, almost transparent lips without any trace of red. I tried my best to hold back the tears. Sometimes truth would mess me up.

It was deep in the night when the Art Underground members arrived at my residence. Not pleased seemed to be even an exaggeration of their annoyance of my carelessness. Although the danger of exposing the Art Underground was increased because of my actions, they did successfully find a lost member, which was a grand achievement. We managed to get ourselves out of District VI during curfew through a truck disguised as a governmental vehicle. Before our departure, I packed all my things, including my beloved books and some of my smaller artworks. And of course, most importantly, Jonathan’s stuff—the red diary and his huge painting, which sadly had to be cut into small pieces again to transport. The rest were shredded and burnt. Through the dancing orange flames I saw a past I could never return to. The fears and doubts of tomorrow washed my hopes for escape.

God knows how many automobiles, trucks, and underground tunnels we had to travel through to arrive at District III. Almost a week of tireless traveling with Jonathan in coma was very exhausting. It was like back when Jewish people were crossing Europe by feed during World War II (a piece of long-forgotten history that nowadays schools don’t teach anymore), but I guarantee their traveling was more gruesome than ours. Cymbeline was repeatedly annoyed with the incognito ways of Art Underground, but also quite mindful with people around her, which surprised me a lot.

After a week of traveling nightmare, we were finally at one of the permanent bases of Art Underground at District III. Thanks to the forever helpful doctor who traveled with us, Jonathan didn’t die after the trip. He immediately got to writing when he woke up to document everything. The environment was too foreign for him. I still could see his vivid figure, walking around, excited and amused; his profile when he first saw Cymbeline’s face after she reluctantly took off her mask; his expression when he learned the truth of his past…It was all too much. My wrist starts to hurt as the blood penetrated the bandage. But now here I am, still in the same basement where he once lied, on a couch drinking cheap liquor while soaked in sorrow.

I opened the red diary again. The candle is still burning. The next page must be him waking up from unconsciousness. Through his eyes, I saw an entirely different world, heartbreakingly realistic and personal, just like his paintings.

Date: 02620074 Day 02.

To do: I fainted. I am at Art Underground. Rafael and Cymbeline with me.

A foreign room lit up by yellow lights. A soft bed and some chairs. Distant hustling and talking noises. A table with medicine placed on it. No windows, but the room has a wooden floor. I quite liked it. A blond female working on some machines near where I lied. A tube in my nose. A short, dirty-blond male talking to a tall, black-haired female. Smoking. No masks. Wait…

The male turned his head and dashed toward me, ready to throw a huge embrace but was blocked by the blond female previously working on the machine. The male looked so familiar, the smile, the voice, and especially those glasslike eyes. I knew I know him, but his name I could not remember. I started to fumble around the sheets searching for my book, which the male handed to me. How could he read my thoughts? Too many questions, I need to write them down.

“Jonathan! You are finally awake! How are you feeling?”

I stared at him blankly. He knew my name, so we were definitely friends then. “Uh…” I panicked. I seemed too impolite to just ask for his name. But the blonde female saved me from this trouble.

“Rafael, you know, he might need some time to recover his memories. His brain was emptied through the medications to get rid of the aftereffects. He will eventually recall your name.”

I was now more confused than ever. I could not remember where I was, what happened before, and who those people are. I started flipping the pages of my book. I was a small raft in the stormy ocean. Threatened by the monstrous waves to send me adrift, my book was the only anchor. Things began to come back to my brain. The promotion, the Art Underground, Rafael’s residence. So, the male was Rafael. Who’s the blond and dark-haired female then? Before I could dig more, the blond sat down beside me.

“Jonathan, I know you are curious where and why you are here. I can do a quick little explanation to you.” Her amicable tone and friendly expression eased my anxiety. “You fainted at Rafael’s apartment due to your previous brain damage. We traveled together from District VI to District III in one week just to get you here. This is one of the Art Underground’s bases, you are safe here. By the way, I am Harper, and this is not the first time we have met. I say good morning to you every day back at the National Technology Institute.”

“Oh…W-Wait what? Y-You know me b-before? Y-You are Harper? The o-one in m-my diary?”

“Yeah. Because Art Underground is trying to recruit you, some of us are disguised hoping to contact you, or just to keep an eye on you. Well, Rafael’s one of those people, although he does have another mission…”

“Okay, t-this is just g-great. It seemed l-like everyone a-are purposed to m-meet me.” I laughed a little. I turned and saw Rafael (I suppose) and the dark-haired female looking at me.

“Alright, I will leave now to give you some personal space with them. I believe they have a lot to tell you.” Harper smiled and ran away.

I studied the two people’s profile. Rafael was shorter than the female; his hair was a mess as random colors were dyed with the blond. His hazel eyes were deep and crystalline. The lips were crooked up into a smile. The female had a pair of yellow eagle eyes with exceptionally long eyelashes. She would look quite stern if she wasn’t smiling. I quickly read my book again, it seemed like with the description, she must be my coworker Cymbeline at the National Technology Institute. But it did not make any sense, how could a National Technology Institute worker be at the Art Underground?

When they sat down near me, I started first in a futile attempt at avoiding embarrassment. “So, um, you a-are Rafael, I know y-you because I-I was f-from Art Underground b-before the automobile accident according to m-my diary…and y-you are Cymbeline, m-my coworker at National Technology Institute…right? Apologize f-for my t-terrible memory…”

Cymbeline gave a little friendly laugh. “You don’t need to apologize, Jonathan, just know we were very close in the past. Also, I am your older sister. I didn’t tell you a word during our ten years together at the National Technology Institute, but now seems like the right time.”

They continued to talk about things I don’t previously know. It seemed like the past me who wrote in the diary was living in lies, or rather, covered truth. Cymbeline is my sister and Rafael is my partner during our time at Art Underground. My syndromes were not a result of an automobile accident, but rather an illegal experiment by the Nation. My promotion is not on little seeker chips, but to further exploit my brain…The random facts thrown at me didn’t shock me that much. It seemed like I am an actor, the diary is my persona, and Rafael and Cymbeline are the film directors. There are hardly any similarities between the past me and current me, except we share a common future.

Date: 02670074 Day 07.

To do: Nothing.

It has been four days since I wrote in this book, which is very abnormal considering this is a tradition I have had for a decade until now. But without work at the National Technology Institute, there really isn’t much I need to worry about at Art Underground. My memories on the people and places are slowly coming back, thanks to the medicine subscribed by Harper. That really makes my life much easier than when I first woke up.

Art Underground is filled with busy people, busier than workers at the National Technology Institute. But instead of appointed tasks, they just work on whatever they like. Rafael told me, rather than “a rebel organization targeted to overthrow the Nation”, Art Underground is more of “a bunch of artists doing things they like while being hunted down by the Nation”. I pass most of my days through conversations with Rafael and Cymbeline, and by strolling around at the Art Underground base when they are not around. The Art Underground is, unsurprisingly, an underground city with several floors filled with extremely complex hallways and secret doors. Although Art Underground is similar to the National Technology Institute basement, but instead of metal, the space is filled with wooden structures. It’s like a moving maze, and most times I need to call Rafael to bring me back to my room because I’m lost.

I can never predict what I will find when I enter a random room. One time, maybe yesterday, filled with weird object I had never seen before. Some of them were round, some were curved, some had strings, and some had keys. They made beautiful sounds when I pushed the keys down. While I was marveling those objects, Rafael walked in. It seemed like he always knew where I was.

“Seems like you walked into one of the music studios by chance,” he was smiling as he sat beside me in front of the keys while looking at me. “Well, this is a piano, if you are curious. Luckily, it’s one of the few instruments I can play. You play it like this.” He proceeded to push on the keys, fingers flying agilely while a complex string of notes flowed out. Mesmerized by the beauty of sound and melodies, I could feel the emotions as the notes resonated with my heart. When the music was over, Rafael studied my face and pulled me into a quick embrace.

“S-So, when I w-was in the Art Underground, do I-I know how t-to play any in-instruments?” I asked half-jokingly.

Rafael chuckled. “Sadly, no. You loved music, of course, but were terrible at playing them. Well, to be fair, one cannot be gifted in every field of art. You are already a genius painter.”

The days in the Art Underground are too relaxing, it almost feels like a dream. I can finally feel the warmness in my blood again. Rafael’s accompany has healed most of my wounds and troubles. Our relationship remains quite close and has grown closer. Without the concerns my life is more enjoyable than ever.

By night, Cymbeline usually comes over, talking about our past that I have long forgotten. The warm candlelight brightens up half of her palely white face into an orange glow. She often talks about it for hours. For me, it’s like listening to a bedtime story.

“We lived together since we were born. Well, like born by humans. People of our age are probably the last generation to be naturally born, for now humans are all cultivated through test-tubes. To be honest, our childhood was as far from happy as it could. We are the first post-Great War generation, and our parents were killed in the nuclear bombardments of the city. So, there were only us, down in the bunker away from radiation. You were so easily frightened back then, hiding under the blanket whenever there were loud explosions. For some reason, you decided to draw to pass time. That probably resulted in you becoming an artist.

“After the three-year Great War, a new government was established, the Nation. We were approaching our twenties. Well, I got myself a job in the National Technology Institute, and you joined the Art Underground when you were eighteen. I still remember you cut all connections with me to avoid putting me in danger.”

“Y-You still h-holding a grudge towards Art Underground because o-of that?”

“Well, sometimes I am still bitter, but to be honest I wouldn’t blame anyone. I did blamed Rafael when you first joined, but that kind of anger is long gone. You two are great together.” She smiled. “It is quite interesting, you know, we passed the first decade of our lives in a bunker away from sunlight completely. After thirty years, the Nation started to work on industrialization, and sunlight was again gone. Quite tragic.”

“I-I still r-remember the sunsets…well, they a-are in m-my book.”

“Extremely important to remember. We cannot live without sunlight, but it seems like the smoke smothered all of it. What is left are eternal winter and darkness.”

The candle was blown, and I took my daily dose of medicine. It was late, and Cymbeline left my room after saying goodnight. How I hoped times like this would never end. There was nothing to connect me with my past except my book. My past-self seemed like a different person entirely.

In the night, I woke up from a bizarre nightmare. I quickly relit the candles to document it on my book before it fades away. Unlike most dreams, this one stayed vividly in my memory for a very long time, and with every recall it seemed to get clearer. I remembered a giant, oval stone slate, floating above the blue stormy ocean under the cloudless sky. There was nothing beside the stone and the water beneath. I looked around, and saw a dark-haired male, cloaked in black leather, sitting on the edge of the platform. As I walked towards him, he stood up and turned around. We were of a similar height, his hair brushing half of his face in the wind. His yellow, goat-like eyes stared directly into mine.

 Like looking into a mirror, I saw my younger self.

“What is it? Well, you’re here, now, just the two of us.” His expression was hard to read. His eyebrows were crooked into a frown, his pursed lips showed annoyance. But the sorrow filled up the yellow irises.

“Um…Y-Yes. W-What is this p-place?”

He gave me a look. Blue light flickered in his golden pupils. “Well, who knows? Somewhere in the supernatural, or just in your nerves.” He spread his hands and rolled his eyes. “Anything else for me to explain to you?”

He seemed angry and disdainful. I could hardly call him myself: our personalities were poles apart. Except the appearance I saw nothing similar between us. Without speech deficiency, I could tell he was probably myself in the twenties, before being captured by the Nation. The roar of the ocean intensified; I could hear the clashing between waves in my ear. Everything was extremely bright under the natural sunlight. The figure in front of me, the younger myself, seemed to glimmer under the brightness. I continued to wonder, but him could take my silence no more.

“You aged so unwell, Jonathan. Someone needs to learn to protect this body, you only have one of them.” Another accusation from the younger male. “You have so many prizes to pay and favors to return to me.”

“W-What do y-you mean?”

“Didn’t you hear the siren singing you to your demise? Your days grow thin, Jonathan. There are too many things you don’t cherish, and one day you will regret it all. Take Rafael and Cymbeline, for example. Do you care about them? Do you still have emotions and feelings?”

I grew angry. I truly was confused how myself was accusing me like I had done something wrong. “I-Is that it? Y-You are here t-to s-scorn me? What c-can I do? I don’t e-even know what y-you are talking a-about!”

The yellow eyes drew closer. He was intimidating. I was like that before the accident…how strange.

“You know too well. You fell into the trap, Jonathan, and there’s no way out.”

“W-What trap?”

“You killed me, Jonathan. Ten years ago, I was murdered by you when I was dragged out of the basement, covered in blood, and tied up on the surgery chair. You cut open my cranium, drilled into my skull, and plugged in the wires. It was all you. The blinding lights, the screams, the whiteness, and blood, it was all you.”

“Y-You are crazy! The National Lab workers…the w-white figures did t-that! How w-was that all me?”

“Excuses, excuses, excuses—you are still smothered in lies. For you it was them, for me it was you who did it. You replaced me.” He drew closer and closer, until I was just barely standing on the edge of the platform.

“I…I am sorry! Okay? P-Please, you k-know we are the s-same. We are a-all Jonathan. Just let us—”

Before I could finish my sentence, the yellow irises, consumed in anger, dashed towards me, and pushed me off the platform. The rolling waves suffocated my screams as I felt myself falling into the chaos. I opened my eyes and sat up on my bed, covered in cold sweat. I could still see the terrifying yellow eyes stripping me apart.

Date: 02710074 Day 01.

To do: Nothing.

The day passed quickly, with more exploration of the Art Underground base and some delightful new discoveries. But the happiness was quickly smothered by the fear of nights. I was terrified of the other me in my dreams. Would he appear again, intimidating and confusing me while getting the joy out of it? I tried to talk to Rafael about the dreams but stopped while it was on the tip of my tongue. I didn’t want him to worry over me anymore. The syndromes were fading away, but new ones were always appearing. The old, somewhat-healed scars the Nation left me were once again ripped open by last night’s nightmare. The spiral seemed to tighten around me again.

I lay on bed with a candle by my side. I stared at the flame dancing around while the wax was dripping down. The room was small and cozy, yet it could not send me to sleep. However, the terror of dreams faded when fatigue caught up on my brain. Again, I saw him…

This time, we were submerged in the darkness of the night. The ground was a huge mirror, reflecting the cold, bleak starlight of the moonless sky. I took careful steps, afraid of breaking the fragile earth. I could made out his figure in the darkness thanks to a small candle he held. The warm light lit up his stern face, and he seemed to glow a little. He approached me with quick but firm steps.

“You are here again.” The candlelight flickered to his breath. “Why? Is being pushed off once not enough for you?”

“I-I…It’s not l-like I want t-to be here, okay? I have n-no idea why…”

“You’re trapped. Again and again under the hands of the Nation and of the Art Underground. Again and again in the reality and in your dreams. Nothing but a puppet of yourself. A thread so thin that could snap in any second. A pile of fractures trying to stick themselves back together. A myriad of reflections of faces off a shattered mirror. I feel bad for you, Jonathan. Drained by the tireless work of the Nation and the labyrinth of life, you will probably disappear completely with nothing left.”

He was extremely cynical, as if trying to deter my refute. I did not understand a word he was talking about. The figure seemed ghostly under the dim, dancing light. The starlight almost shined through his pale, translucent skin. When I looked into those eyes, the yellow was glowing, and I wished that I was hallucinating that.

“Can you name any constellations?”

The long silence was broken. He looked up into the deep night sky. I was bewildered by his sudden, unrelated question.

“W-What? No. I…I can’t.”

“Exactly as I predicted. ‘I c-can’t see the sky b-because of the s-smoke’, right?” His mocking of my speech deficiency was nonetheless very offensive, but I figured getting angry at myself was rather absurd.

“The sky is always there, no matter if there are smoke blocking it or not. You only need to look closely; you can see the starlight.” A short pause. “Just like everything else. Your senses are blocked by things of no importance. You cannot see the truth behind the veil because you don’t seek it.”

I have no idea why I am getting these dreams, and why the past self is obsessed with talking nonsense. It must be the pills from Art Underground. The medicine I am taking for days that restores my memory. They might have overkilled, arousing some monster crawled in my deep subconscious. Maybe he is always there, waiting for the day to meet the real me. There might be a separated consciousness in myself terrified me.

I stared at him wide eyes, the yellow eyes reflecting the candlelight. It almost appeared like he was standing on a lake, the mirror beneath his feet reflecting his figure perfectly. I looked down and saw my own reflection. There was a candle in my hands too.

“We are one, from the beginning until the end. We are black and white. We are two sides of the same coin. Separate yet inherently together. One dictate in the light while the other reside in shadows. We are all Jonathan Faust.

“They will see me one day instead. In dreams or hallucinations, who knows?”

The reflection beneath his feet was moving. I looked up, but the younger male was still standing several steps from me with a faint and unreadable smile. His reflection was moving towards mine. I started to run. The real him was still there, standing like a statue, but his phantom in the mirror was dashing at me with incredible speeds. I could feel the mirror cracking beneath my steps. As I ran faster and faster, the mirror was shattered into smaller pieces, floating beneath my feet. The pieces slowly gravitated around me, with every single one of them, no matter the shape and size, showing a phantom of my younger self. They slowly closed in from all sides, and I could see a million pair of yellow eyes staring into mine.

Once again, I woke up in cold sweats and panic. I grabbed onto someone near my bed in the mist of terror. It was Rafael. I was holding his bandage-wrapped arm quite tightly, which caused him to hiss in pain. I quickly muttered sorry and let go.

“You okay? I saw you muttering and shaking in your sleep, so I thought it’s best for me to come over and check.”

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. It seemed like the time to explain it to him.

“Rafael, like, I-I know t-this is weird, but I-I keep having n-nightmares about myself…”

He stared me in the eyes and encouraged me to go on. I could see the flickering candlelight in his eyes.

“Look, there i-is this younger me, he was warning me. H-He seemed rather a-angry with me.” As always, I handed him the book to read. I detested my speech deficiency. After a while he put the book back in my hands.

“From your description I can confirm the person in your dreams is very likely you in your twenties. The way he speaks and acts is so characteristic. I honestly have no idea why he appears in your dreams, but it might be a good sign. Maybe your memories are coming back gradually in this rather bizarre way. Let’s talk to Harper sometime. Don’t worry too much over it.”

I was still concerned, and he clearly saw that. I thought about the dreams over and over again and started sketching the scenery in my book. I stared at the portrait I drew for my younger self. He looked so familiar. I saw Rafael looking at me with kind eyes.

“Do you want me to stay for the rest of the night?”

I nodded.

Date: 02720074 Day 02.

To do: Leave Art Underground base.

The good days had come to an end. Rafael told me Art Underground members were leaving this base in District III due to one of the Nation’s surveillance “Truth Observer” being found in the base. This place was no longer safe for us to live in. I could feel the cold sweats as I heard the little seekers had penetrated the base, the very thing I worked on for years at National Technology Institute. Rafael promised me that we might be able to seek refuge in other countries than the Nation if we are successful. Maybe we could finally escape the death notes on our head.

We packed our belongings and left in a disguised automobile, which I detested riding on and only compromised to Rafael’s promise of staying with me the entire ride. In the windowless back trunk of the vehicle we rode for hours, during which Cymbeline and Harper started a game to lighten up the mood. Cymbeline, despite her often stern and terrifying appearance, is joyful and optimistic in heart. Paired with Harper the automobile ride wasn’t a complete nightmare as I imagined.

The journey was unsurprisingly exhausting. We changed our vehicle at least ten times to just barely escape District III. Finally, we settled on the back of a van to travel to the city peripheral. During the ride, I fell asleep in the darkness with the humming of the car engines. Again, I saw him.

This time, I had no idea where we were at. The space was completely white, like the void. He was sitting on the ground, submerged by the light. I sighed and sat down beside him.

“W-What’s the deal this t-time?” I asked quietly, fearing to anger him.

“Deal? There is never a deal. You force me here every time. You brought me here for God knows why.”

I grew angry. “W-What? You are b-being unreasonable! I have no idea w-why I’m h-here and have n-nothing to do w-with the reason why you a-are here!”

“Now there’s no use getting angry, okay? I am part of you, and you are part of me. Stop pretending you have nothing to do with me. All I know is that I have met you sometime in the past, and we might meet again sometime in the future.”

It must be the medicine. The younger me was reluctantly pushed upon meeting me. The only factor that could possibly force him was the medicine. His appearance almost made no sense.

“Jonathan, let me tell you again. Stop wasting your hope on things that are not going to happen. Try to save yourself and save the ones you love. It will end soon.”

“W-What do y-you mean?”

“This,” he raised his hands and turned around, “this place is nothingness. I am a phantom. Look around. It’s all white. Now one day you will be just like me. Residing in the void, nothing but a shadow of the past.”

“I see. Y-You are cynical b-because I really exist b-but you don’t.”

“No. I am cynical because I know one day you will become something like me. Only appearing in others’ hallucinations through their liquor-drained brains. Only something of a wisp of smoke, easily dissipated into the wind. Do what you can before that.”

“But I—”

“No more ‘but’. You are becoming transparent, your time is—”

The whiteness was shattered through a loud blast. I was smashed into the van’s wall while desperately trying not to be thrown to the other side of the trunk. My hand slipped to the back of my head, sensing the warm fluid off the back of my cranium. Rafael held onto me tightly, arms around my torso as if trying to comfort me. I grabbed his hand. I could hear faint screams and sirens. The driver hurried out of the vehicle while something smashed the front window. The shattered glass spewed onto my face as I desperately tried to cover myself. The shards scratched my face, leaving streaks of blood. In the mist of chaos, Cymbeline stood up immediately after the vehicle stopped its violent motions. She grabbed some weapons, probably a rifle, and threw two revolvers to Rafael and me. Harper quickly followed her.

“W-What happened?” I asked while shivering.

“It’s the devil’s way out now. We are surrounded by National Police.” Harper responded, determined but sorrowful.

“Get up, you two! Harper, you lead them outside this van and run to wherever is safe. Rafael, you stay with Jonathan. I will follow you three.”

She kicked open the van’s backdoor and pointed her rifle at the crowd of National Police. Those people were cloaked in white, bleached leather uniforms with a metallic mask shielding the entirety of their head. Each carried several weapons, some decorated with iron tooth. Some were already dyed in red. Harper fired first, bringing down some guards and started to run. After several deafening gunshots, several polices were down. I could see the blood on the ground, spreading from corpse to corpse, white uniforms turning into red. Rafael grabbed my arm and dashed with Harper while firing shots with his weapon. We ran and ran until the wind caught up with our breath.

The National Police were not after me, or after us. They seemed to solely focus their fire on Cymbeline. Some white figures with tranquilizer guns approached us but were quickly shot down by Harper and Rafael. I turned around, and saw Cymbeline almost surrounded by a number of National Polices. I realized what was happening. Cymbeline was trying to distract the National Police to let us escape.

The long black hair was half burnt, blood spilled on her face. Another shot, another white figure down. One hand with a pistol and the other a rifle, the dark figure fought ferociously. I never realized how good Cymbeline was at physical fighting and violence.

“Cymbeline! Quick! Stop fighting and retreat!”

She swung her rifle at a National Police, the gun stock smashing into the figure’s head as a splash of red spilled out of the metallic helmet. The figure collapsed onto the ground, with blood and matter flowing on the ground. They seemed stunned by her, retreating as she started to run toward us. They were now behind her. A swam of whiteness, washing over the red stained concrete ground. They were exactly identical, clones of a heartless creature. Their ferocious facemasks and cold appearance aroused some deep memories. They dragged me out of the basement ten years ago, and they might do the same now. Through the flashes of white, I saw the guards pointing their guns at Cymbeline. But before they could shoot, Harper took them down.

We continued to run. The grey ruins of a great city landscape beside us. Some National Police were still behind us, but their numbers were quickly diminishing. Finally, we were free of the white terror of the guards. Rafael led us into one of the dilapidated buildings after hours of running. We found a well-protected room inside it and decided to stay for the night. I did not know how many days we could survive without any supplies. I sat down, leaning to the concrete wall while listening to the wind howl outside. Rafael rested beside me, fumbling in his bag. I marveled at his ability to keep track of his things in the mist of chaos. I already lost everything except my book.

In the middle of the long and sleepless night we heard some weird crackling noises. It was first very faint, then it grew louder. It was the stumps of iron boots, many pairs of iron boots in sync, beating the ground like a battle drum. We all heard it. It was louder and louder and louder, like an impending storm. I hold tightly onto Rafael as we made our way out of the room as quietly as possible. Every breath, every step, every move, done in complete silence and caution.

We went for the nearest exit. We all thought we were free, escaped the iron claws of the National Police. Steps and steps, walking toward the door in complete silence. My hand on Rafael’s.

Then a flash of white. They appeared at the door, guns pointing straight at us. It was blinding. My eyes watered from the bright lights as the tears blurred my vision. We turned around but—

A gunshot. I stared wide eyed. A black shadow flashed in front of me and collapsed. Blood streaming out of the wound.

I heard my screams and cries. Cymbeline. She was there, in front of me, rescuing me from the hands of Death while sacrificing herself. Kneeling down as blood flow out of the wound on her chest, she stood up again, with the rifle still in her hand. A swing and a shot, the white shooter was down. Another blast on her. Another shot. Another pierce. She collapsed on the ground.

The yellow eyes and flickering dark eyelashes, no different from my own, was shimmering under the bright light. I rushed towards her, beads of tears falling down. I saw it all. I saw her burnt, sizzled, spike-like dark hair spreading on the ground. I saw the blood stains on her pale skin. I saw my own eyes in hers. A faint smile on her thin lips. She raised her hand to my face.

“Don’t cry…it’s not the end of the world…”

Her voice was hoarse. She coughed as blood was choking her breath. I lumped myself onto her, trying to capture the warmth that’s fading away. I saw her eyes slowly closing, waving their farewell to the world. Her hand was in mine, slowly growing cold as the grip loosened. I felt something fall from her hand. A jade ring. Her blood on my face. A million pair of white hands grabbed me on my back, throwing me off her corpse. A National Police approached me and swung a bat-like weapon on my face, smashing into my left eye. I felt blood on my face as I fell to the ground. I tasted the iron and salt of the streaming crimson. I saw Harper rushed over but was knocked over by a white figure.

The white figures grabbed Cymbeline’s body by the hair and dragged her out of the room. A long streak of blood was on the floor. Several National Police were in front of us. I held onto Rafael’s hand, ready to accept my fate. The blood was still rushing out of my left eye. Rafael stripped some bandage from his arm to stop the blood. I could see the knife scars, one after another, covering almost the entirety of his arm. I cried and he threw his arms around me.

“If this is the end, then I’ll see you in the next life.”

The blood and tears blurred my eyes. I felt a harsh grip and then a cold stinging pain on my neck.

With blurred vision and smothered mind, I heard some cries and shots. More fumble. More violence. They are dead. They are dead. They are dead. Then nothing. Everything fades into darkness.

Date: ???

To do: ……

It was him. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew it was him. The dark-haired male with yellow eyes, sitting next to me as the wind gently blow on us.

“What happened to your eye?”

I responded with silence. Tears were dropping down my cheek again. I looked around. We were on a grassy hill, over an endless grassland. There was nothing but green, different shades of green. The tall grass beside us were dancing slightly with the wind, as well as the daffodils, the daises, and the wildflowers I could not name. The blue sky decorated by thick and layered white clouds, so feathery up upon the heaven.

 He turned to me. I knew he understood. I knew he knew what happened. I stared into his yellow, goat-like irises without fear but sorrow.

“I’m sorry.”

“……”

“Now, have this.”

He reached over and embraced me, arms around my back. Then he broke away, pushing his palm on the left side of my face. He started untying the bandage covering my face, slowly and carefully. I grabbed his hand and stopped him. He gave me an inquiring look.

“You c-cannot untie it. Sorry. Rafael t-tied it. It’s his. Now he…he is dead, t-this is the o-only thing I have to r-remember him…”

He retracted his hand.

“The jade ring. Cymbeline…gave it to you?”

He broke the silence. I nodded. I could not stop the tears.

“It’s from our parents. She told me when I was really small. It’s the only prove that our parents existed. I don’t remember them exactly; I was too young. They died in the nuclear war or something…

“She gave it to you, so she is also…”

“Dead. Y-Yes. S-Shot by the National Police to p-protect me.”

A long silence. I lied down onto the soft earth. The songs of the grass and the whispers of the wind in my ears. My eyes stared into the azure sky, marveling at the white clouds morphing and changing shape. The wind flew on my wet face from my tears. I could feel him lying down beside me.

“I’m sorry for whatever I said to you before. They are nonsense. I was trying to make you understand the feeling of losing someone. But it is of no use. Death is inevitable. I lost them. You also lost them.”

I stared into his eyes again. The sorrow. The pain. I know he felt it too. He lost everything, just like I did.

“Jonathan, t-tell me, i-is there a n-next life?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there are. But don’t put in too much hope. I do not know…I really do not know. I lost them and was put into limbo of your—no, ours—brain, forever trapped.

“For you, I know the pain you suffer. They, the anchors of our life, are long gone from this world, yet we must figure out how to live the rest of our life. I do not know…I cannot…It’s like completely lost on the ocean in a small boat, blown by the tremendous storm and struck by the terrible lightning.”

He was right. We all knew it. I sunk myself into the grass. The pain in my chest was ripping me apart. Heart-broken. Gunshots. Shattered glass. Her eyes. His hands. Why must it be like this?

Maybe this is a dream. This is a dream. The Cloud Cuckoo Land. It’s too peaceful. I see him in my dreams. His hand on mine, gently touching the jade ring on my finger. The beautiful, miraculous sky filled with sunlight, without a single trace of smoke. The meadow, the grass, the nature, the clouds, the wildflowers, and the fragrant spring wind. So vivid. So lively. So colorful. I shut my eyes and let myself drift. No more pain. No more terror. No more loss. Just never wake me up.

Date: 02840074 Day 04.

To do: ……

“W-Will I lose you, j-just like h-how I lost Rafael and Cymbeline?”

He turned to me. This time, we were sitting on the glimmering snow, at the foot of a mountain. The sky was always immaculately blue. The snow was not frigid, only cool by touch.

“You will not lose me. I am you. But you can’t always live in dreams, right?”

A sigh.

“We should go now.”

Behind us, the mountain started rambling. Landslide of snow and ice. I saw a rupture, the violent movement of rocks and snow as they ran down the mountainside like a tremendous wave. It was devouring everything on its path. Trees thrown into whiteness. Rocks sliced in half. The deafening roars and unstoppable forces of nature suffocated any hope of resistance. He shouted at me, trying to get me to run. But I turned around to face the impending snow. The yellow eyes showed confusion. No more words. The snow was louder than them. I opened my eye to let the snow wash away my soul…

A cold electric shock, I opened my eyes wide. The lights were so bright. I was at the other side, the next life or something else…Finally out of the terrifying world I was in. The brightness dimmed a little, but still blindingly painful for my eye to look at. I heard familiar voices and noises. The light was finally dim enough for me to observe my surroundings. I felt my blood cooled down.

White figures around me. I was half-lying down, tied to a surgery bed. A mask shielding on my face, although half of it is already wrapped in bandage. Tubes in my nose and mouth. Needles. Wires. Surgery knifes. A familiar, white-cloaked, iron-masked figure standing in front of me. I closed my eyes. I am not here; this is not real. I am dead, this is not real. Please let back to my dreams. I am not here...

“Mr. Jonathan Faust, I believe? We are very glad that you have awakened from your coma.”

I froze. The cold, bitter voice. It was him, the Director of National Technology Institute. How I loathed and feared him simultaneously…

“We have carefully examined your brain activity in the past week during your coma…”

  The Director continued to speak. I found that my hands had been untied surprisingly. I started to document his words in my book. I was more confused than ever…

“Mr. Faust, you see, your brain is rather damaged after the automobile accident, and the Nation has a very comprehensive understanding of it. Our workers noticed your rather…abnormal activities in the past few months. For example, your loss of focus during your working hours at the National Technology Institute. One worker reported seeing you talking to nothing as if there were a person. After a careful examination of your personal documents and your…notebook, our workers discovered that you have developed a certain illness. You have schizophrenia.

“Schizophrenia caused you to faint in the National Technology Institute department office a week ago. Sadly, you injured your left eye when you fell. According to a worker, you hit your head on the corner of a table. You were rescued by the Healthcare Center workers. Luckily, you survived under the hands of skillful National workers. This syndrome also resulted in your hallucinations of imaginary people and places. After a careful and professional examination of your notebook, the National Biolab workers determined that some events and people documented there are not real.”

I coughed. His attitude and words were making me extremely uneasy. Something’s wrong. No, everything was wrong.

 “What d-do you mean? Who’s i-imaginary?”

He looked at me sternly and dismissively but continued with his somber speech.

“Schizophrenia caused you to see figures you imagined and experience events you pictured. There are many examples. Harper, the so-called Art Underground surgeon and reception desk worker, was entirely imagined. There is a reception desk worker whom you would greet every morning, but her name is not Harper.

“The next is your older sister named Cymbeline. She did accompany you through your childhood, but she died likely due to radiation from the Great War two decades ago when you were still young. Your portraits and depictions of her are likely of a female in your dreams. The event of she bravely protecting you is very likely…imaginary. It is probably due to your attempts of recreating past memories of her.

“Most importantly, the male figured named Rafael…whom you have a very strong emotion towards…” I could not help but notice his disgust and abhorrence over the word “emotion”, “He is purely imaginary. He never existed. You likely forced your fantasies upon an unreal identity.”

I blinked. I could still feel half of my face covered in bandage. Rafael tied the bandage for me...was that also imaginary?

“Finally, the events documented in your notebook, your escape to an organization named Art Underground et cetera, are all imaginary. They likely happened in your dreams at night, so lively that you mistake them for real events. You were never being experimented upon by the Nation for new technology. It was all an automobile accident a decade ago, you likely imagined a cause of it. There was never a rebellious and treacherous organization named Art Underground. There were never paintings. There were never anything straying from the Nation’s motifs.”

There was never anything I cared about. There was never truth, only dark smoke smothering the sky. Is it all a dream? Like the ones with my younger self? All fake, all in my brain? All of which a result of an automobile accident, just like my memory syndrome and speech deficiency?

“T-Then w-what is real?”

“Your dedication as a National worker at the National Technology Institute. Your daily commute on the underground train. Your promotion of the Truth Observer chip. Some descriptions of the District VI city.”

“I-Is Reagan r-real?”

The Director paused.

“…Yes.”

“M-May I meet h-her?”

“I am very sorry; you cannot meet her.” The Director snapped. “She was expelled and punished by the Nation for leaking important, confidential information. You probably will never see her again.”

A long silence. I stared into the Director’s dark, cold eyes.

“A-Are you r-real?”

I finally questioned. By heart I know he will be offended by my impolite inquiry, but I couldn’t care less.

“You should always refer me as The Director, Mr. Faust.”

“A-Are you, The Director, r-real?”

“Yes, I assure you.”

“C-Can you p-prove it?”

Anger and frustration appeared in his eyes, just like how I predicted. I even captured a slight motion of panic.

“You should rest, Mr. Faust. Excessive questioning is not good for your syndromes and your health.” He paused. “Also, I expect to see you at the National Technology Institute tomorrow for work, because according to my knowledge, you are still a National worker who carries responsibilities.”

He then stormed out of the Healthcare Center room, leaving me alone with all the white walls to stare at.

They later asked me to get out of the Healthcare Center. As always, I returned to my residence, alone on the underground train. I sat on the seat that I always sit on with Rafael. But this time, the window seat beside me was vacant.

I opened the door. My familiar small residence appeared in my eyes. The bed, the desk, the flickering warm light and the piles of paper scattered on the floor. I quickly shut the window and drew the curtains. In the center of the room, alone, I sat on the floor, thinking, pondering every aspect of my life…Those people, those familiar and loving faces, those dear memories, all a lie? If they are hallucinations, why are they gone now? Why are they dead?

I must be tricking myself. I must be tricking myself. I must be…The yellow eyes told me I was a puppet of myself. Maybe they were not real. I went deep into the spiral, which strangled me on my neck. Choking in the deep dark waters of the unknown…The Director, why did he know so much? I wanted to write, I needed to write all this down.

My legs brought me to my desk as I searched for a pencil. Then something caught my eye. A package, wrapped in paper and tied up with a string, was resting on my desk. In dark ink, a line was written. “To Jonathan”. But no names. I thought I might have recognized the handwriting…I shivered at what could possibly be in there.

My hands struggled to untie the strings. I was stunned by what I saw. The unwrapped object almost fell from my hands.

It was eight rectangular pieces of canvas, covered in thick paint of vivid colors that I could make out some vague images. A jigsaw puzzle of a painting. I quickly and meticulously spread the pieces on my floor, for they were too big to be placed on my desk. A picture formed when I correctly rearranged them. I realized what the painting was the instant the jigsaw was pieced together. A shooting scene, people forced onto a relic of a wall, pointed with rifles by white and iron-masked figures. Burning buildings in the background, corpses piled up on the ground. The Great War, this painting is the Great War. Memories came back to me. I saw this with my own eyes, for every stroke of brush and drop of paint I knew by heart. It was painted so realistically; yet it’s extremely bright and vivid colors are so unrealistic. My painting. This was my painting. Rafael, he—

I quickly grabbed the paper wrappings on my desk, trying to repack the canvas pieces, fearing being discovered by the Nation. Then a piece of folded paper fell out when I was fumbling with the wrappings. I opened it. It was a letter.

Dear Jonathan,

How are you doing? I know it’s a silly question to ask, for I don’t expect any replies. If you are reading this right now, then congratulations, we are both alive.

I now give you this painting, for it has always belonged to you. I have been keeping it for you for too long. It documented a piece of dark history forbidden by the Nation that we shall never forget.

After the incident, I decided to live incognito. I am sorry for your loss, for it is a loss for me as well. May her rest in peace. I know they are keeping an eye on you, and it’s dangerous for both of us…This is probably the last time you will ever hear from me. But I promise, you will live forever in my memories. Please, Jonathan, please also promise me not to despair, and do not let the smoke smother the sunlight. Like I said last time,” if this is the end, which I know it won’t be, then I will see you in the next life”.

                                                                                                   R.

I collapsed onto the ground, with one hand firmly gripping onto the paper, the other one on my right eye wiping out the tears. Schizophrenia, schizophrenia, schizophrenia…there were never any hallucinations. The Director lied. Rafael is real. He is real. And he is alive. I can feel the roughness of the paint on the canvas, I can feel the wrinkles of the letter paper, I can feel his bandage over my left eye. Cymbeline is real. But she is dead…I have her jade ring, the legacy of my parents. How is this possible? Am I a fool of reality and dreams?

I know he is alive, somewhere in this mortal world…but how am I able to continue with my life, when I know he is already gone from me? The work at National Technology Institute seems so cold. The unbreakable wall, forever separating us…Is it better for me to end it all?

Date: 02850074 Day 05.

To do: Go to National Technology Institute for work.

“You want to end it all? Why?”

“B-Because I couldn’t see a-any point i-in living anymore.”

The younger dark-haired male seemed worried. We are lying on a sandy beach, with warm sea tides washing my feet. The sun was very bright, but still comfortable for my eye.

“No, please don’t do it. Please. Rafael said to not despair.”

“B-But everyone I c-care about, everything I-I care about, are gone f-forever. What’s the p-point in living in a-a pile of lies from the Nation anyways?”

“There is a point. That diary.”

I looked into his yellow eyes, light flickering in the glassy iris like a germ. The sound of the ocean waves. The shadow of palm trees. The motion of seagulls. Maybe only dreams could be like this…

“What a-about my book?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Document your thoughts for him. For Rafael. You will discover the point of life through this, trust me.”

I sighed. He is right. The smoke blocked my eye to see the stars, because now I couldn’t see the point of this action. But maybe it could give me some hope…some dangerously alluring hope.

I woke up from last night’s dream. It was vivid, as always, but something seemed to be empty. If there is no purpose of life, then I will need to make one; or at least, convince myself there is one. For now, as he said, this book would no longer be a documentation of my life to help me remember, but a letter, a note, or whatever that conveys my feelings to him…no, to you. To you, Rafael. This entire red book will be yours when I finish it, but I just don’t know when. Remember when I bought an extra from District II a month and a half ago? I will use that for the insignificant daily life matters to assist my memory. It is my final impression on the cruel world we live in.

The candle was still burning silently by my side. The light danced on the pages. Just now, I realized what this was all about. He gave me this, or left me this, as his note. This was his memoir of me, not just a mere illustration of his life. I knew I was not prepared for this. The drunkenness was already consuming my rationality and my senses. I sat up from the sofa a bit to straighten myself. When did he left me this? I could hardly remember…it was too long ago. Ten years? Ten years! It all felt like yesterday…

Date: 02850074 Day 05.

Just some thoughts over the painting, the ring…

I talked to him, my younger self, last night. As always, we just chatted. It was miraculous. The dreams seemed to be livelier than the reality. He said he really missed you, for it was more than ten years since you two meet. So, the Nation’s experiment really worked on changing my brain or personality; for now, I have a separate persona who’s from a time before the accident.

I pieced together the painting you gave to me several times, likely due to curiosity and obsession over the precious past it represented. Not the history the piece shows, of course; for that is too dark. I mean the memories we had together. I first took my eyes upon it in your art studio, and you said something about defending it with your life. I wouldn’t agree with the second part, though; life was too precious to be wasted away on a piece of painting, and we only got one chance.

The work at National Technology Institute is horrible, as always. Without Cymbeline, I really don’t find a point in it anymore, except occupying my time from emptiness. Speaking of Cymbeline, I took a closer look at the jade ring she gave to me, and I found some carving in the inner circle. It reads as something like “Belongs to the White Family” or something, but to be honest I do not remember my true last name, which was probably changed to “Faust” upon my joining of the Art Underground. Do you still remember my true last name?

Date: 02860074 Day 06.

How many deaths and rebirths does one have to go through…

Just some interesting thoughts I like to tell you: before escaping, I use to read The Daily Mail, especially the Supreme Leader’s “How I Made My Nation” column. I tried to read it during work, but only realized how poorly constructed and untruthful it is. The Nation’s people are never affluent, all the money goes to District X and the Upperpeople. They just need control, right? I think you know that. Probably everyone at Art Underground knows that. The Great War is just the Nation rebuilding from a full-scale nuclear war itself started, but the Nation does not want us to know that, so they started burning everything that’s evidence of the war. That’s why they banned art, right? Because too many of them documented the Great War, and with art people are less easy to manipulate with.

I think I knew most of the facts above before I turned thirty, but the experiment really dug them out of my brain. Now, the distant past is slowly reforming in my brain, probably due to the recovering pills from Harper. How is she doing? Is she safe, still working in the Art Underground as before? I hope she is because I am thankful of her.

I reminiscent a lot during the working hours at National Technology Institute, especially our memories together. We first met on the underground train, and it was very embarrassing, like being put inside a glass container for exhibition. I came to the reasonable yet uncanny conclusion that I have died three times throughout my life. The first time I was captured by National Police and dragged to the biolab for brain experiments. Lost all of my previous memories, acquired speech deficiency and memory syndromes—as disastrous as it could possibly get. When I fainted in your residence due to the “promotion” was the second time when I died. It wasn’t as devastating as the first time, and it gave me a chance of rebirth. The time at Art Underground, thanks to Harper’s pills, I began to slowly regain memory. The third death is the most tragic one. It happened when Cymbeline was murdered in front of my eyes. Back then, I thought you and Harper were dead too, but thankfully you two survived. I still dare not to relive that horrifying night. All those death in my life each revealed a past I could never return to. All those deaths brought be closer to truth, the truth that I seeked with my life, yet it felt so distant. The eeriness of time…A time so different from the present that it felt like centuries had passed, yet so lively and vivid just like yesterday. I lost something during each death. I lost my connection to my past self. Nothing was left. Tell me, Rafael, how many deaths does one have to go through to truly live freely?

Date: 02930074 Day 03.

I think I have lost what I am…what I was.

Time passes like grasping sand with bare hands. The particles always find a sneaky way to escape between my fingers. At least that was what I dreamed of last night. Of course, there was myself, who was still staring at me with those vibrant yellow goat eyes.

I haven’t written in several days because I am too bothered with trivial matters. The only consistent thing I remember is the incessant pain in my left eye. I have changed the bandage several times, but has always kept yours, Rafael. It’s pure obsession to grasp whatever people have left to me when they exited out of my life.

The scar on my left face is hideous. I fear to look at it in the mirror. A long slash with stitch marks all over it ran the entirety from my forehead to the left cheek, cutting through the eye—or, what is left of an eye. That National Police must have smashed my eyeball into my brain that night, leaving such a gruesome mark. Have they left something like that on you?

When I drew out all the unhappiness in my life to a single source, it did not surprise me when I found out it was the Nation. Always the Nation. Brain experiments, needles, white figures, automobiles, memory lost, Little Seekers, promotions, guns, murders, deaths. All of it, a single source…Maybe I am a puppet. Always driven by some outside forces. Completely abandoned my originality…Ten years ago they dragged me out of the Art Underground basement. The moment wires from National Biolab were inserted into my brain is the exact moment when I lost myself. Forever.

Date: 02960074 Day 06.

This will end. But I want to see the sunset one last time.

I now understand. There is no point anymore. To live is to forever be in chains. Each movement of a limb is controlled by strings from an evil hand. The flicker of my eye, the string of a thought, the precedent of an action, all under careful planning from an omnipotent being hovering above our consciousness.

Without art, without emotions, without Cymbeline, without you, what is left could not possibly drive my will to live. I am sorry. You said to not despair, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I want to end the incessant pain and torture of living.

From the moment I woke up, I know today will be the day. I want to do something before I end it all.

A fiery, colossal ball of flames, glowing in an impending crimson, slowly descending until it is all submerged under the spikes and ruins of the city, with its powerful sunrays piercing down the grey, concrete, lifeless structures. The firmament is illuminated in a luminescent orange and yellow, as well as everything beneath it. The sunlight warming my bloodless, pale face as I could be finally free again.

I want to see the sunset one last time. I want the sunset to be the last thing I see. For Cymbeline, for you, and for freedom.

Date: 02970074 Day 07.

I saw the burning sun with my eye. Could you believe it?

Thankfully, no National Technology Institute work today. But I still proceeded to arrive at the building during afternoon. I looked up. The huge grey edifice piercing into the dark smoke above, disappearing into a cloud of chaos. This will be my ascend.

I started from the emergency stairs attached to a side of the National Technology Institute building. It was a rackling iron structure, with steps merely supported by thin metal frames. Step after a step, I climbed up, hands grasping onto the railings coated in black smears of dust. The grey concrete wall by one side, and the endless drop by the other. I looked down. A new view of the city I live in. Pillars of greyness with its gaps filled with shacks and relics of the past. I continued and saw the thick layer of smoke above. With my treacherous mask, I could survive in the thick gases of waste while my vision was blinded by the smoke.

After a few steps, my head arose from the waves of blackness. I nearly lost balance to what I saw. The red sky. The burning sun. The sunlight on my skin. The view above the dark smoke…I ripped my mask off my face, the clear and fresh air filling my lungs.

I am on the top.

Date: 03010074 Day 01.

I went to your old residence, Rafael, and of course you were not there. The door wasn’t locked, and everything looked exactly the same that day when I fainted, with paint spilled on the floor, already dried up and would make a sound if you stepped on it.

You haven’t returned to this place since then, and I know that. But what can I do? I will leave my book to you, in this residence, hoping one day you would return and read it. If you couldn’t I wouldn’t blame you, for it is what accompanied me through my darkest days. Even if you would never lay your eyes on these pages again, it doesn’t mean all this love would be in vain. Maybe in the distant future, it would be read by some random person in the world. Either way, the story would be lost…but it doesn’t matter. Every story would be lost in the waves of time.

In case you are reading this, Rafael, this is my final note. After this, I will take the leap and let my body fall down the National Technology Institute building in the rays of the sunset.

I will now tell you a story. After the brain surgeries the Nation had pressed upon him, his life had been an insufferable experience mingled with forgetfulness. The Nation took everyone from him, forever. He was in a dungeon. For this dungeon is worse than hell; in hell you at least have the burning flames and boiling lava illuminating the underworld, yet in this dungeon there is nothing. Only darkness, filling up the spaces, filling up the mind and heart. Chains tied to the limbs, stretching and moving them under the will of another. 

Ten years ago, He had already died, for the true him lays in his grave. What remains is nothing but a phantom, who longs to relive to the past he could never return to. The desire of truth is too profound, he could not bear it anymore. The Devil allured him to great perils. The gamble of the Devil. He gave his soul away to the Devil, doomed to live the rest of his life in chains and darkness, in exchange of a shadow of the past. The future for him is graved on the stone. For him, all is lost. He lost everything and everyone he loves and could only bent his knees subserviently to the puppeteer and the strings.

He will remain a shadow of the past, with each day his shape diminishes, slowly turning translucent, nothing left but a lone and troubled soul wandering in the mortal world.

So, why not end it all? I still have the freedom to choose when and how to go to the underworld. The Devil had won the game, only partly. He missed his last step. I saw the chance. A slight mistake in a step of game would crush everything. I had awakened from the dreams.

Rafael, and this is to you. Bearing a farewell to the world is easy, but to you it’s impossibly difficult. Please let me live in your memories, in the form of this red-velvet-covered book. You said to not despair, but you see, this is not despair, yet a jump to a land of freedom. If this is the end—this will indeed be the end, Rafael, then I will see you in the next life.

…The candle was still burning silently by my side, although its length was significantly shorter, and a clump of molten wax accumulated at its base. Another bottle down the throat. Through my numb senses I could still feel the pain on my wrist as my life slowly fades away in drops of blood. I felt like even the burning of alcohol could not save my body from slowly fading into coldness. I coughed and choked at the liquid flowing down my throat as the taste of salty tears mingled with the bitter liquor. The growing pain each time I inhales slowly unfurled in my chest. The red diary still being firmly gripped in my hand, with tears wetting the worn, yellow pages.

My trembling hand threw away the blood-stained knife, wishing to get another bottle of liquor, fumble between the emptied ones lying on the ground. The crackle of glass. The flicker of candles, the dripping of blood. No more drugs to calm my mind. His heart was spung out of the chest, lying there in my hand, in a red velvet cover. I curled up on the couch, in a cocoon I had always been forming with threads of guilt and sorrow. Hands clenching onto the face. Tears were unstoppable. Maybe all this love had been in vain. Streaks of blood. Blood-stained bandage. Bandage on his face…

“What is it? Well, you’re here, now, just the two of us.”

My eyes flew open. The pain on my arm was gone. What a playful and mocking tone, I could hear the faint smile…In the dim, flickering orange light of candles, a figure stood by the sofa with folded arms. What on Earth happened? It was almost translucent, I could see the pale skin refracting the candlelight, almost making it glimmer.

The figure, with half of the face covered in white bandage and the other half almost hidden behind the messy dark hair, stared into my eyes with his glowing yellow goat-eye. Still in the dark grey coat, wearing that outfit…I saw the stitch marks on his arms, his hands, his neck. The uncharacteristic fluency in his words, the characteristic satire in his tone…I gasped and covered my face with my hands. How could I see him? How could I see this being? I must be dead. His last words were true then, next life, next life…

“Surprised to see me?”

“No, this isn’t real, this a dream, only a dream.”

“What was that?”

I lifted my head up from my hands. He looked just like the last time I saw him, but the somberness was replaced by enthusiasm and energy. Ghost, phantom, they are imaginary, but what is this before my bare eyes? Must be the product of excessive drinking. I didn’t end it with that knife…

The dark-haired figure clearly took the silence with a slight annoyance.

“I know you want to meet me someday. We haven’t met since…when? Since that horrifying night. Ten years, Rafael. Ten years since I jumped off that wretched building. You have aged so much; your dirty blond hair is almost white.”

“And you haven’t aged a day. Including the way you speak.”

The figure started moving around, in ghostly silent steps, almost hovering above ground in an uncanny way. I rubbed my eyes and started to search for pills to end this intoxication. The figure moved toward me and picked up the red diary from my hand.

“So, you’ve got my book! That is auspiciously lucky for both of us. You returned to your old residence after I ran away?”

“Yes. I was there to clean up the evidence, but I came across this. Very lucky indeed for me to get it before the Nation does.”

I finally found the pills and took a heavy dose, maybe too much for my body to handle. After swallowing the pills and closing my eyes for a while, it is still there. Standing close to me, in complete deafening silence. Dreams, hallucinations…this is digging my brains out.

“Am I troubling you?”

The figure finally broke the silence. It knew.

“What? No…Yes! Yes, you are troubling me. Because I know too well you are dead. You are dead the instance you thrown yourself off the National Technology Institute building. You are dead. I know you are nothing but a hallucination, a figure that my brain imaged to help cope with the trauma I just went through while reading your diary. Please, please just don’t haunt me, I know the guilt has been with me since that night, strangling my thoughts whenever I think of you.”

The tears were down my face again. Why was this happening?

“You are dead, Jonathan. How could you be here?”

“Maybe I begged the God of Death to release me out of the underworld to take you there?”

“No…Jonathan, this is not a time for jokes.”

“I’m not joking. It’s true.”

He walked…no, hovered over and sat on the sofa beside me and grabbed a bottle from the floor. When he found out the bottle is empty, a visible disappointment appeared on his face. He then turned to me.

“How many of these did you drink?”

“A lot…you don’t want to know.”

He sighed. The bottle was put away on the floor, in the exact place it was at before being picked up. I stared into the glimmer of candlelight in his yellow eye.

“Why did you come here? Well, if you are indeed Jonathan, or the ghost of him, why did bother to return to the mortal world anyways?”

“Because I want to give you a surprise when you finished reading that book. It’s like your little ‘not to despair’ speech, to tell you there are things to be hopeful about.

“Also, how can you be so sure that this is the mortal world?”

He stood up and extended a hand at me.

“What?” I asked, quite confused.

“Don’t you want to go outside for a walk? Laying all day in the sofa drinking surely sounds extremely healthy to me.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed his hand. It was miraculous that I could touch and feel this ghost from another dimension. I took my coat, which he commented on as “shabby as ever”, as we walked out of the room. After a series of stairs and doors we ascended to the surface. The instant I opened the door, I was shocked. I could see no one, not a single person, on the streets. The buildings around looked completely abandoned, with green vains growing all over them. Relics of great structures stood in silence in the gentle cool breeze. The sky was so transparent and clear. White clouds tainted with a faint gold floating lazily under the azure canopy. No smoke, no darkness.

Most importantly, I could see the sun, shining in its forever brilliance resting peacefully in the sky.

I continued to walk down the street, observing how my shadow was morphed and stretched when projected on different surfaces, a phenomenon I hadn’t seen since I was a child. Sometimes the shadow turns, sometimes it dances. Jonathan hovered silently beside me, still holding onto my hand in a determined grip. It was so silent. Only my clumsy footsteps and the crackle of concrete beneath me could be heard. The scenery was eerie. The Nation, in my faint memory, was filled with the rattling of machinery of steel and dark smoke; but nothing before my eyes resembled the city I imagined.

“You are shocked at the look of the city, I know. How long have you been inside?”

“How come you could read my thoughts now, Jonathan?”

“That’s a spiritual power of ghosts, I guess. Much have changed, right? It’s the polar opposite from my memory of it. Look at the city, no people, no metals, no smoke, no automobiles. I can even see the beautiful sun!”

I rubbed my eyes at the bright light and sighed.

“This is like living in cloud cuckoo land.”

We walked for a long time, mostly strolling in the abandoned city. The ghost seemed mesmerized by the green plants growing on every single surface, as he touched the vines and leaves and branches in such a tender and careful way, whispering inaudible magic spells to them. Through the refracted sunlight, the figure shimmered a little, and his hand felt warmer. After traversing the entire District VI city, we arrived at the edge of the City Peripheral. The immensely tall concrete wall on the District boarder was still there, but its glory was long gone, for now crackles filled with sprouting leaves spread on its surface. The barbed wires were replaced by tangling green vines. We walked along the wall, finally finding a crevice where we could both squeeze through.

I did not expect the other side of the grey concrete wall to be the ocean. We walked together on the muddy sand of the beach towards the great horizon of water. The waves glistened under the yellowy orange sunlight. We found a boulder that could fit both of us sitting.

“I’ve never seen the world outside the City Walls until now,” Jonathan commented. His hair slightly waving in the gentle wind.

“Neither did I.”

“But I have seen the oceans in my dreams. With myself. That sounded ridiculous, but you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah. Speaking of that, did you get rid of your speech deficiency by replacing it with your younger self? Also, your appearance? Wait, that doesn’t sound right because you two are one…” I babbled while pointing a finger at him.

“Don’t worry about it. I have my forties look and my twenties personality.”

I stared at the infinite horizon. I never knew District VI was by the sea. What was across that impossible body of water? The waves, the air, the sand…all felt so unreal. No one beside us. No one. The world felt silent. I knew this was some utopian dream, and Jonathan was nothing but a phantom. He was a Third Man, certainly; only some imaginary figure to help me cope with this cruel reality…

“Rafael, you really think this is a Third Man Syndrome?”

“What? Did you just—” I interrupted myself. The ghost’s mindreading ability really is irritating. He released a quirky laugh and started to fumble the bandage on his face, adjusting them slightly with his elongated fingers.

“Rafael, no, I am not the Third Man. This might be real, but it might not. You are here with me…

“Third Man. I am not the Third Man. Just in his brain. Childhood memories? No. Imaginary friend?” a small laugh. “No. Not that. Am I real? Probably not, ghosts are not real. But I’m talking to a ‘real’ person…maybe he’s not real! We are in the next life, we are in the Utopia, in the Cloud Cuckoo Land. Possibly, maybe. Count. One two three, one two three, one two three, the clock is ticking, the sun is setting, Rafael…

“Cymbeline walking down the office, giving me pain killers. I saw the white, clearly illegal pills laying in her palm. With my broken words I said thank you. With my shattered words I asked her why. With my twisted words I gave her some advice. Seek truth, I said, forfeit your life in it, forfeit everything for the truth, even reality and dreams. Just like I did, just like I did. I took the Devil’s offer; I played the Devil’s game. The Devil offered me truth, in return for me to forfeit my freedom and soul. But what did I get? Nothing, nothing, nothing, because they were inseparable. Why did I do it? Why? Because I wanted to be free. It was a paradox! No one could grant you freedom, not even the Devil. The game was a lie. Just like everything else in this world? Can you separate what is true and what is not? Can you separate what is a dream and what is not? The only way out is to not play with the Devil’s rules. But wait, do you still have the painting? No? No…No rules. No…”

“Did you get freedom in the underworld?” I asked the ghost to stop his babbling.

“Well…yes and no. If you ask me, are you free for everything you are in? I will say no. But if you ask, are you free for yourself? Yes.”

“For all the traumas and pains we went through together…”

“I know. I know it’s not right. I share your guilt, Rafael.”

The sun was slowly going down. The sky was turning red, making the sea red too. I stretched an arm to hold the ghost on his shoulder. I always imagined ghosts to be transparent, untouchable beings. Maybe I was wrong. His head on my shoulder, we watched the sunset together.

“I need to go back, Rafael. It’s time.”

We are back in the basement again, with him sitting on the sofa beside me, staring at the dancing flame.

“But before I go, I will give you this.”

He untied the bandage from his head and twined it on my left arm. The cut did look bad, with dark crimson still slowly oozing out of the wound. I looked at his bare face. His injured eye didn’t look so bad, but his whole body looked like it was stitched together in surgery. After tying the bandage, the ghost rose from the sofa and smiled at me.

“Goodbye, Rafael.”

I opened my eyes. The candle was still burning silently by my side, but the light was so dim, I could barely see. Must have fallen asleep…The wrist wasn’t hurting as much. The red diary was still in my hand. The room was almost immersed in darkness. The candle was burning out. The wax was still dripping.

It was a weird dream, wasn’t it? The ghost of someone you loved, appearing out of nowhere. The whole world left spinning in desperation. I took a deep breath and opened the red diary again. Words appearing on yellow pages. The last page, the last paragraph, the last chapter of this story.

It wrote: “Rafael, and this is to you.” Regret. Guilt. The candlelight dimmed. Molten wax was piling up down on its base. The symbols of language, dancing around the flame. Bearing a farewell to the world is easy, no, please don’t leave, but it’s impossibly difficult. The liquid wax is dripping down. Third Man. Third Man. Among us, there were never a third person…How could this be? Please let me live in your memories, in alcohol, in pills, in the underground train where we “first” met, in the art studio, in the white rooms, in the dreams, in that painting that’s been cut into a million pieces and stuck together and cut again…in the form of this red-velvet-covered book.

The candlelight is so dim, I couldn’t see anything. I said to not despair. You said to not despair, but I despaired, this is the end. Yet a jump to the land of freedom could not save me anymore. At this point, how many seconds do you think this candle will last? If this is the end—this will indeed be the end, this is the end, Rafael, the time is running out, the time is running out, did you hear it? Did you hear it? Tick tock of clocks. Melting wax. Drip. Drip. Drip again…Dancing flame. Took so many pills, drank so much liquor, sliced open too many scars. Can you hear it? You are daydreaming again…lost in thoughts? Thoughts are thoughts anymore. Drips of your blood. It must hurt. The heart hurt more than the body. Did you see me? Standing there, near you, with the yellow eyes staring at you? I hope you did, I hope you did, because after all this suffering, we will see each other in the next—Oh, Rafael, the candle burnt out.

He never finished the last chapter of that red diary.