𝘙𝘌𝘔𝘌𝘔𝘉𝘌𝘙.

TRY TO REMEMBER THIS TIME AROUND.

(There was writing on the mirror, when you woke up. Under it there was a date. You didn't think much of it, wiping it off.)

You're not sure.

(the pictures on your wall stare at you, you've said. They've never believed you.)

The mirror's cracked, you notice. You can't remember when that happened. Did it ever happen? You're not sure.

It's odd. Like life is repeating itself, day in, day out.

(Your knuckles are bleeding. Did you fall again?)

You've been seeing things that aren't there, listening to whispers from a time you weren't there.

It's okay, you reassure yourself.

You can't remember who you were, before all of this. Before you crumbled to pieces, broken bones and soft scars, molten into your skin like-- you can't remember.

It's okay.

(what's your name again?)

You throw your books on the bed, sighing.

The windows open, shit. You can't stand the cold.

Is it really because of the cold? You remember liking the way it bit your skin, the way your nose got red and you shivered. Maybe it's because of some other thing, some frantic writing on one of the post-its on the wall, you're not sure.

(the people are watching, on the other side.)

Lately, you haven't been sure about anything.

It's okay, though. You don't repeat it enough, people don't believe you anymore. They never have, anyway.

Your reflection moves. You flinch.

(was the mirror always there?)

The door closes and there's a file on your bed, you realize. That wasn't there, before, was it?

It catches your eye, the way it's labeled.

'REMEMBER.' It says in bold, red letters.

You open it.

There's frantic writing on it too, just like on the post-it's. You recognize it. It's yours.

Scribbles, page after page.

When did you write this? You can't remember.

Your name.

You've found it.

It's scribbled on every page, and you remember it all.

(there was a missing person report; case gone cold. It's been ten years.)

It feels like a fever dream, the way it all comes rushing back in.

Tears prickle at your eyes, you've missed out on so much-- shit, they think you're dead. Buried six feet under. And maybe you are.

Shit, hurry, before they find you again--

You remember.

(--through the mirror, they're watching, they've always been--)

Out of a flash of rage and something else, you punch the mirror. It cracks, leaving blood to trickle down your knuckles.

The lock clicks. Shit, too late again?

You don't know how much longer you can do this.

There's a man that walks in, he says something you can't understand, and you crawl back.

He presses something to your mouth and you try to get out of his tight grip but you're so tired.

You can feel yourself slipping again, you can't--

There's writing on the mirror. Hopefully, you'll remember this time around.

--

(What were you thinking of again?)