Vanishing Point

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. The walls are a dull gray, peeling in places, and the air smells faintly of mildew and something metallic. A single flickering bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting uneven shadows that dance across the floor. My head throbs, a dull ache that pulses behind my eyes, and my mouth feels dry, like I’ve been sleeping for days. I try to sit up, but my body feels heavy, uncooperative. My hands are resting on a cold, hard surface — a metal table, I realize, as my fingers trace its edges.

I blink, trying to clear the fog in my mind. How did I end up here? The last thing I remember is… what? I squeeze my eyes shut, searching for a memory, any memory, but it’s like grasping at smoke. There’s nothing. No name, no face, no place. Just this room, this table, and the faint hum of something electrical in the distance.

I force myself to sit up, my muscles protesting as I swing my legs over the edge of the table. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I notice I’m wearing a plain white jumpsuit, the kind you’d see in a hospital or a prison. There are no labels, no insignias, just the faint outline of a number stitched into the fabric above the chest- 247.

The room is small, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with no windows and only one door. The door is heavy, made of steel, with a small rectangular window at eye level. I shuffle toward it, my legs unsteady, and peer through the glass. The hallway beyond is dimly lit, lined with more doors just like this one. It’s eerily quiet, save for the faint hum that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

I try the door handle, half-expecting it to be locked, but it turns with a soft click. The door creaks open, and I step into the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest. The air is colder out here, and the walls are the same dull gray as the room I just left. The floor is concrete, smooth and unyielding under my feet. I glance left, then right, but there’s no sign of life, no indication of where I am or what this place is.

I start walking, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The doors I pass are all identical, each with a small window, but when I look inside, the rooms are empty. No tables, no people, just bare walls and floors. The further I go, the more the unease grows in my chest. This place feels wrong, like it’s been abandoned for years, but the hum of electricity suggests otherwise.

At the end of the hallway, I find a set of double doors, these ones larger and more imposing than the others. A faded sign above them reads LABORATORY 3. I push the doors open, and they swing inward with a groan. The room beyond is vast, filled with rows of tables and shelves cluttered with equipment — beakers, microscopes, computers with cracked screens. Dust covers everything, and the air smells stale, like it hasn’t been disturbed in a long time.

I step inside, my eyes scanning the room for anything that might explain where I am or how I got here. On one of the tables, I notice a stack of papers, their edges yellowed with age. I pick up the top sheet and squint at the faded text. It’s a report of some kind, filled with technical jargon and diagrams I don’t understand. The words Project Mnemosyne are printed at the top, followed by a series of dates and notes.

“Mnemosyne,” I murmur, the name stirring something faint in the back of my mind. It feels familiar, but I can’t place it. I flip through the pages, my eyes catching on phrases like memory extraction and neural mapping. My stomach twists as I read further, the implications of the words sinking in. This place… it’s some kind of research facility. But what does that have to do with me?

I set the papers down and move deeper into the lab, my unease growing with every step. At the far end of the room, I find a large glass chamber, its surface smudged with fingerprints. Inside, there’s a chair with straps hanging from the armrests and a helmet-like device attached to the top. Wires snake out from the helmet, connecting to a console covered in dials and switches. The sight of it sends a chill down my spine.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice trembling. “Is anyone here?”

There’s no response, just the endless hum of electricity. I turn away from the chamber, my mind racing. I need to find a way out of this place, but first, I need answers. Who am I? Why am I here? And what is Project Mnemosyne?

I leave the lab and continue down the hallway, which branches off into more corridors, each one identical to the last. The facility feels like a maze, designed to disorient and confuse. As I walk, I notice small details that make my skin crawl — scratches on the walls, dark stains on the floor, and the occasional broken light fixture that flickers and sparks.

Finally, I come across a door marked SECURITY. It’s slightly ajar, and I push it open, hoping to find something — anything — that might help me. Inside, there’s a desk with a computer, its screen dark, and a set of monitors mounted on the wall. The monitors are off, their screens black, but there’s a keycard lying on the desk. I pick it up and examine it. The name Dr. Raven Carter is printed on the front, along with a photo of a woman with sharp features and piercing eyes.

I slip the keycard into the pocket of my jumpsuit and turn to leave, but something catches my eye. On the floor, partially hidden under the desk, is a small notebook. I crouch down and pull it out, flipping it open to the first page. The handwriting is neat but hurried, the ink smudged in places.

Day 1- The subjects are responding well to the initial tests. Memory extraction is proving more challenging than anticipated, but we’re making progress. Dr. Carter believes we’re close to a breakthrough.

I flip to the next page, my hands trembling.

Day 7- Subject 247 showed signs of resistance today. The neural mapping was incomplete, and the subject became agitated. Dr. Carter insists we continue, but I’m starting to have doubts. This project… it feels wrong.

My breath catches in my throat. Subject 247. That’s me. I’m one of them. I flip through the rest of the notebook, but the pages are blank. Whatever happened here, it ended abruptly.

I stand up, clutching the notebook to my chest, and step back into the hallway. The keycard feels heavy in my pocket, a tangible link to whoever Dr. Raven Carter is. I need to find her. She might be the only one who can explain what’s happening to me.

As I walk, I notice a faint light coming from one of the doors up ahead. It’s different from the others, more like a glow than the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. I approach cautiously, my heart pounding in my chest. The door is slightly ajar, and I push it open, revealing a small room filled with monitors and control panels. In the center of the room is a chair, and sitting in it is a woman.

She’s slumped forward, her head resting on the console in front of her. Her dark hair is streaked with gray, and she’s wearing a lab coat with the name Dr. Raven Carter embroidered on the pocket. I step closer, my breath catching in my throat.

“Dr. Carter?” I say softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

She doesn’t move. I shake her gently, and her head lolls to the side, revealing pale, lifeless skin. She’s dead. My stomach churns, and I take a step back, my mind racing. What happened here? Why is she dead? And why am I still alive?

I look around the room, my eyes landing on a monitor that’s still on. The screen displays a series of files, each labeled with a number. I scroll through them until I find Subject 247. My hand hovers over the mouse, hesitating. Do I really want to know?

I click on the file, and the screen fills with text and images. There are photos of me — my face, my body, my brain — along with detailed notes about my “progress.” The words blur together as I read, but one phrase stands out- Memory extraction successful. Subject 247 is ready for Phase 2.

Phase 2. What does that mean? I scroll further, my heart sinking as I realize the truth. This facility wasn’t just studying memory — it was erasing it. And I was one of their subjects. They took everything from me — my name, my past, my identity — and left me with nothing but a number.

I stumble back, my legs giving out beneath me. The room spins, and I clutch the edge of the console to steady myself. This can’t be real. It can’t be. But the evidence is right in front of me, staring back from the screen.

I need to get out of here. I can’t stay in this place, surrounded by the remnants of whatever nightmare they were trying to create. I grab the keycard from my pocket and scan the room for an exit. There’s a door on the far side, marked EMERGENCY EXIT. I run toward it, my hands shaking as I swipe the keycard. The light turns green, and the door clicks open.

I step outside, and the cold night air hits me like a slap. I’m in the middle of a forest, the facility looming behind me like a shadow. The moon is full, casting a pale light over the trees, and I can hear the distant sound of running water. I don’t know where I am, but I know I can’t go back.

I start walking. My bare feet crunch on fallen leaves. The further I get from the facility, the lighter I feel — like I’m shedding a part of myself with every step. But the questions remain, swirling in my mind like a storm. Who am I? What did they do to me? And what is Phase 2?

I don’t have the answers, but I know one thing for certain- I won’t stop until I find them.