One Night Only

The End

Byron's eyes flickered open, greeted by a blur of stark, clinical white. The world around him was sterile—antiseptic and metal lingering in the air. His head throbbed, a dull ache drilling into his skull. He was restrained. Confined.

He was in an asylum.

A heavy breath left his lips, but before he could process his surroundings, the door creaked open.

"Good morning, Mr. Powell," came the clipped, measured voice of Dr. Clark. "How are we feeling today?"

The words sounded foreign, distant. Byron blinked, disoriented, searching his mind for something to ground himself—some recent event to cling to.

Dr. Clark studied him before giving a small nod. "You had another episode last night. Do you remember?"

Byron frowned, dragging his mind through a fog of missing moments. Nothing surfaced.

"I see," Clark murmured, making a note. "Byron, we've spoken about this. Your condition is progressing. The confusion, the lapses—they're becoming more frequent."

Byron's fingers curled against the blanket, gripping at reality. "I know who I am."

"Yes," Clark agreed, his tone steady. "But do you remember what happened today?"

Silence.

Then—laughter. Sharp, bitter, unraveling at the edges.

Byron shook his head, as if trying to rattle his thoughts back into place. He was Byron Powell. A celebrity. A host. A star.

But then why did he feel like nothing more than a lost man in a stranger's body?

Dr. Clark exhaled, moving closer. "Byron, it's understandable. The brain clings to old routines. You were a performer for decades. It's not unusual for Alzheimer's patients to revert to their past, especially under stress."

Byron's breath hitched. No, no, no. He clenched his fists against his temples.

"I... I am Byron. I'm fucking Byron Powell."

Clark hesitated for the first time, then placed a firm but careful hand over Byron's trembling fingers, grounding him. But the touch felt clinical, distant—nothing like the reassurance he so desperately needed.

Somewhere in the corridor, voices drifted through the walls.

"Oh, just a bit of a scene, that's all. Kept yelling about cameras rolling, missing his mark. Thought he was on set again."

Byron's stomach twisted. The memories clawed their way back—but at what cost?

He turned to Clark, eyes wild with desperation.

"Doctor, I'm Byron Powell, right? Please—please tell me," he begged, his voice breaking. He reached for the man's hand, gripping it tight.

Clark gently pulled away.

Byron's breath came faster. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Dr. Clark! Hey! Tell me! What did you do to me? What is this medication? Dr. Clark!" His voice cracked, turning into a desperate shout. He flung himself forward, stumbling into the hallway, reaching out to anyone who would listen.

"Help! Help! I want to get out of here!"

The nurses turned, startled, then exchanged a knowing glance.

"I don't want to forget! I want to go back! Let me go!" Byron thrashed as two orderlies grabbed his arms, dragging him backward. "Do you know who I am? I'm Byron Powell!"

The hall buzzed with low murmurs and quiet laughter from the other patients, their eyes locked on the spectacle unfolding before them. A freak show. A performance he had no control over.