Who Am I?

It’s the most peculiar feeling in the world…

Waking up and not knowing who you are or how you got to where you are, your own body betraying you as soon as it jolts awake, drowning out any attempt at recollective thought with the noise of your unforgetting heart steadily pounding in your chest with reckless abandon fueled by an instinctive sense of urgency. 

‘Get out of here!’ The panicked organ screams out as it throws itself against your ribcage, still acting on the lingering emotion of utter fear from before your mind was transformed into the blank canvas it is now. This alarming bodily response to a present problem you can’t remember no matter how hard you try is the only clue you're given to figure out what had transpired before now and what role you might’ve played in it.

It’s a terrifying concept, I know. I know because this spine-chilling description of waking up in a body you have no past memories of inhabiting is exactly what I’m experiencing now.

Stumbling to my feet from the nicely lain, pearly white carpeting where my being was splayed when I escaped the darkness that hid behind the lids of my eyes reminds me I know how to stand. Though it doesn’t bring to mind how I might’ve learned to do so. It also hurts to try and force the memories up themselves and only adds to the dull pain in my skull. Kind of like the discomforting scratch a hungover teen might feel at the back of their throat as their fingernails scrape across it in a desperate attempt to regurgitate the alcohol and scattered events from the previous night.

I made sure to take note of the disturbance in the carpeting’s loose yarn exterior leading to where I had come to just moments ago. It seemed to be in the shape of staggering footprints that I could only infer to be my own. For the fact that my shoe matched up perfectly with the indented steps I had forgotten I took before they ended suddenly. I had tripped, but what had caused it?

The question invoked an itch of subtle curiosity that then mixed with the battering pain in my skull. Which caused my initial plan of moving to a comfier spot, preferably, on the hunter green armchair nearby and resting til I felt I was able to search for the pieces of myself more effectively, slowly fade into the back of what was left of my mind. 

‘I don’t have the time for rest. Not when my heart is nagging me so insistently.’

It felt as though there was a ticking time bomb in my chest whilst I busied myself by floundering around for my footing. I know how to walk, walking is nothing more than the simple act of propelling one's body forward only to catch yourself before falling with the foot you move in front of yourself. 

In my attempts to navigate the living space, I begin to take note of all the details I come across. For example, to my right there are double glass doors leading to a back porch area with a few rocking chairs. The back porch being only a few inches off the dimly lit lawn, meaning I was on the first floor of the home. Notice I use the word ‘home’. I know it’s a home because of the recurring cast of characters I see on every picture set on the mantle in front of me all in frames that, unlike the rest of the house, had collected barely any dust. They must’ve been moved a lot, moved by the idle hands of an unemployed family member, most likely a mother, that can’t ever find contentment in the arrangement atop the singular shelf.

However, unlike my memory, the mother herself was easy to find. Posed upon the kitchen floor in a burgundy bed of blood, she had been laid carefully on her back with her dainty arms crossed over her chest. The off-white, normally flowy blouse she had on was adhering to her abdomen wound and stained with the slowly congealing liquid it expelled.

The scene was stomach-churning and twisted, tainted with the unforgiving scent of a cruelly taken life before its time. Yet, I couldn’t help but dawdle there a moment longer, staring at the body in front of me and admiring it like it was a centerpiece of sorts. The pictures upon the mantle did her no justice compared to how I was seeing her now, because in my eyes she was no longer just a mother-

No, no she was a work of art now…

I knew the meticulous handiwork was crucial to guiding me to my past from that point on and the necessary path was illuminated for me by the most brilliant red I had ever seen branching off from where the mother was. I felt invigorated as I followed the trail around the stairs and into the hallway where the lighting began to flicker and dim. It seemed as though the singular hall light had been damaged so it kept short-circuiting every so often. I didn’t really feel the need to examine the lighting for too long though, feeling more captivated by the scattered splatters and ichor coated handprints that adorned the matte walls of the small area. Each of these beautiful blemishes was nothing more than a creative stroke of genius, demonstrating an antecedent tango between life and death. My feet felt lighter as I traveled around the hallway, joining in on the dance and placing my hands on each of the blots like a student traveling in the footsteps of his teacher. 

Suddenly, I stopped…

 My fingertips caught grazing across the last velvet drag upon the first doorframe of the hall, Then hanging off it as I swung my field of vision into the room.

“Unbelievable…” The word dripped from my lips just like the blood dripped from the newly discovered victim's mouth. I was in a whole different canvas now, as I stepped out of the mother’s dance and into the father’s office. I saw he was perched in a corner desk of the room, the screen in front of him casting an electric blue hue across his cracked glasses and agape mouth. His cause of death was painfully obvious from the state of his head, the back of it bashed in yet hidden behind the mangled layers of encrusted and receding hair that had been recombed over the fatal wound after it was inflicted by the artist. His hands uncharacteristically at rest, draped over the armrests he never used just like the spare time he never used to spend with his family. 

This artist was so gorgeously detailed, he even cut out the man's tongue after he had died. The only point to this added gore was to show that the father would look and act no different without this appendage. Not like he needed it anyways.  It wasn’t like he’d ever use it to defend his wife or protect his kid. He’d just use it to lick over his drying lips as he continued to work and work… and work…

After I believed to have taken in the piece to it’s complete extent I was off again, off to find the last remaining family member. The last remaining work in this exhibit and maybe, just maybe… The last remaining piece of me.

…

…

…

It's been an hour and I’ve looked everywhere for that wretched child, but he was nowhere to be found. Nowhere in the house, on the porch, in his own room. He couldn’t be anymore than twelve years old from what the context clues the house contained had told me. Surely that wasn’t it, surely there was one last piece. There couldn’t only be two, there had to be three. There just had to be three. Three to be complete. Three to be safe. And if it wasn’t complete, I was going to just have to complete it myself. 

I headed down to the first floor, frantically throwing the kitchen cabinets and drawers open til I found a meat mallet that seemed sufficient enough-

That's when the lights come to illuminate the scene.

 Red blue red blue red blue. 

I dropped the item in my hand and it clattered to the floor. 

Red blue red blue red blue. 

Red. 

I remember now where the boy was, he was the very reason I had forgotten. He hit me in the head with his toy wooden bat and then must’ve run for help after I blacked out. 

I looked down to the mother on the floor once I finally remembered who I was. 

This artwork, this beautiful positioning of the ghostly shells of once living creatures. 

This was my greatest masterpiece.

But those awfully horrid cars pulling up outside, the personified version of the worst form of artists block that someone like me could ever experience. With my final, unfinished work probably sat proudly in one of the passenger seats, smiling wickedly at the thought of ruining my life's work when I was just at the cusp of its completion.

They’re the ones who formed this into my worst nightmare...