IN THE AUTHOR'S GRASP

I was a detective. At least, I think I was. Or maybe I still am? But how can I trust that when my thoughts are nothing but twisted fragments, shattered reflections of what they once were? Each time I reach for a memory, it writhes away, slippery and foul, something decaying just beneath the surface of my mind.

I was sure of myself once. My name, past, and how I stalked the city's dark alleys like a predator were all carved in stone. But now, everything's fluid, poisoned. The ground beneath me is quicksand, and my thoughts are treacherous, a swarm of insects burrowing into my skull, gnawing at the edges of my sanity.

I paused, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles whitened as if I could squeeze the truth from the wood itself. The grain feels rough under my fingers, solid—almost painfully so. There's a matchbook beside my hand, its cover worn and faded, a logo I can't quite place. I glance at the photograph on the desk, a woman's face frozen mid-laugh. Do I know her? Or is she just another phantom conjured by this rotting mind of mine? The memory slips away before I can grasp it, leaving behind only a sick, hollow ache, the echo of a scream that never quite ends.

I pace through the dimly lit office, where the air is thick with the musty scent of old paper mingled with the acrid bite of lingering cigarette smoke. The room hums with a faint electrical buzz, a sound that worms its way into my brain, burrowing deep and nesting there. This place—it's familiar, too familiar, like the suffocating embrace of a nightmare you can't wake up from.

The desk is cluttered with case files—cases I might have solved if I had more time and clarity. But the names on the files blur before I can focus on them, smearing as if drawn in blood on wet glass. I question whether these cases ever existed. Or did I invent them to fill the void? When I think I have a grip on something, it slips away, leaving only the cold, wet stain of doubt.

Footsteps echo in the hallway, sharp and hollow against the polished floor. I reach for my revolver—a Colt, or maybe a Smith & Wesson, hell if I know anymore—but before my hand meets the cold steel, the scene shifts with a sickening lurch, like the ground is dropping from beneath me. My fingers grasp empty air, and I'm unarmed, sitting behind the same desk, but now the room is bathed in an unnaturally bright sunlight.

The once-darkened blinds are wide open, flooding the room with a harsh light that burns into my eyes and makes them water. My head spins with vertigo that claws at the edges of my sanity. How did it get to be daytime?

The case file in front of me is different now, the papers impossibly white and sterile, and the photograph pinned to it is a woman's face, her eyes pleading for help, her lips parted as if frozen in a silent scream. My instincts flare, a gut reaction honed by years on the job, but then a new thought slithers in, cold and slimy: Is she a victim, or could she be the culprit? Or worse—did I make her this way? Did I break her, just like I'm breaking now?

I hear a laugh—a familiar, twisted echo that makes my heart lurch. Was it hers? Or is it mine, bubbling up from the dark pit in my chest where the fear festers? The thought is gone before I can catch it, replaced by a sickening emptiness.

The door creaks open, the sound stretching out like a death knell. I should be expecting someone—my partner, maybe. Or was I always alone? The question gnaws at me, a splinter in my mind, but I can't remember. I look up anyway, and there's nothing—just the faint whisper of wind slipping through the door, now ajar. It should close with a click, but it doesn't. It stays open, inviting me—or mocking me. The following silence is heavy and oppressive, as the air before a storm. Or maybe it's the calm before the executioner's axe falls.

I force myself to stand, my legs unsteady as if the ground beneath me is tilting, warping, as sick as I am. I move to the window, the glass cold against my fingertips, almost biting. The city sprawls out below, a collage of shadows and pulsing neon lights. It's beautiful in a grotesque, hypnotic way, but I don't know if I've ever seen it.

Have I walked these streets, or have I just imagined them? I can't be sure. The view dissolves like a mirage. Now I'm in a car, driving fast, the rain pounding on the windshield with a deafening roar, making it impossible to see what's ahead. The wipers struggle to keep up, smearing the water into ghostly shapes that claw at the glass. I should slow down, but there's a thrill in the speed, an urgency that gnaws at my bones, something dark and primal. The tires screech as I round a corner, the car fishtailing, but a voice inside me snarls: this isn't real.

I blink, and the car's gone. I'm back in my office—no, a different one, more modern, sterile, and it feels like a cage. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glare on everything, revealing every flaw, every crack. The walls are closing in, or the room's just smaller. The air feels thinner yet is suffocating me. My heart races, pounding in my chest like a drum, a frantic rhythm that threatens to split me open.

I grab the desk's edges, trying to anchor myself to anything. But even that's slipping away, the desk melting under my hands, hot and sticky, like wax. I feel the pull of the unknown, the weight of possibilities that refuse to settle, each one more terrifying, more grotesque than the last.

Then, there's a moment of sharp and jagged clarity, like a shard of broken glass. I know what's happening, or I think I do. I'm being rewritten. Every thought and every decision is in flux because someone out there—someone I can't see—is second-guessing themselves. Every time someone changes their own mind, I change too. I'm caught in the in-between, a character with no fixed identity, constantly shifting in a story that never stays the same, no matter how much I beg for it to end.

But there's something they can't rewrite—my awareness of it. I feel the tension in the air, the pressure of a choice that hasn't been made yet. It's as if I'm standing on the edge of something, teetering on the brink, waiting for the final rewrite to solidify or erase me completely. The thought terrifies me, a cold, creeping terror that curls around my spine. Still, there's also a sick thrill in it, a perverse excitement that courses through me. If this is a game, I want to know the rules. I want to know how to win.

I try to focus, to find a thread of consistency in the chaos, something to cling to. The woman's photograph flashes again—her eyes, her silent scream. Did I know her? Did I do this to her? Could she be the key to all of this?

I return to the case file, but it's gone, replaced by a blank sheet of paper. My name—what is it again?—is blurring with every passing second, syllables rearranging, meanings twisting - a puzzle that refuses to be solved. Or maybe it's not a puzzle at all—maybe it's a curse.

I think of my partner, or at least the idea of one. A shadowy figure, someone I once trusted, or maybe I hated them; perhaps they betrayed me. But the memory is fleeting, slipping away just as everything else. Was there ever anyone else? Or have I always been alone in this rotting, decaying mind of mine? I glance at the matchbook again, wondering if it holds a clue—something small, consistent, that I can cling to.

The room shifts again, and now I'm back in the car, the rain still pounding, the road ahead a dark blur. But this time, I slow down, easing off the gas, letting the darkness close in. I have no idea what's ahead, but I know I must find out. The voice inside me whispers again: this isn't real. But I push it aside. Whether it's real or not, it's all I have left.

The rain stops. The road is clear, the sky bright with an impossible sun that feels like it's mocking me. I pull over, the car idling quietly as I step out. The city stretches before me, a shimmering mirage, a sick joke of a world I can't escape. It feels familiar yet alien, as if I've seen it a thousand times but never truly knew it. I take a step forward, then another. The ground is solid beneath me, at least for now, but I know it's just waiting to give way.

I have direction and purpose for the first time in what feels like forever. I write my own script. I must keep moving, even when I question reality. I will be determined to learn. Then the floor beneath me feels uneven, as if the fabric of reality is warping like it's sick and dying. If I can catch just one thread, one stable piece of this story, maybe—just maybe—I can take control. Before they do.

Or I'll tear it all down myself.