Villa Compoint, 75017 Paris. 8th May. 2012. 08:23...
My eyes were wide open, staring at the cracked and aged mirror in front of me, the reflection of myself, and the dim-lit, narrow bathroom. This was not a pleasant sight, and it was a reminder that I had a lot to deal with today, and that included a lack of proper sleep, and a messy appearance, that made me look less presentable than I would have liked.
I couldn't process my reflection in the mirror, and the sight of a teenager with a tired, hazy, and somewhat lost expression on his face was not something that pleased the eye. With a sigh of defeat, I reached out and turned the shower tap. A cascade of hot, steamy water flowed, splattering against the tiled floor, and the rhythmic tapping of the drops created a soothing melody.
I looked like I was around sixteen years of age. My long and untidy black, almost onyx, hair fell loosely over my face. Covering a portion of my features, including my eyes. Those sunken, weary, and emotionless pair of deep-brown, nearly obsidian orbs, had lost their former spark. My slightly tanned complexion was a testament to the warm, and sunny, days spent outdoors. Yet, the paleness of my skin, that bordered on an unhealthy pallidness, betrayed the underlying toll that the stress of daily life, and a poor diet, had taken on me. The stubble on my chin, and cheeks, indicated the need for a shave. But, the truth was, I wasn't bothered by that.
"What..." My hands were trembling, and a sudden surge of dread coursed through my veins, as the realization of what was happening dawned on me. An inexplicable terror gripped me, and the pounding in my chest became deafening, and echoed loudly in the cramped space of the room, as the gravity of the situation sank in.
My legs gave way, and the force of the fall knocked the breath out of me, and left me gasping on the hard and unforgiving tiles. "No..." A hoarse, desperate whisper slipped from between my parched, chapped, lips, the sound echoing off the cold and indifferent walls that surrounded me. As my fingers clenched into fists, the reality of my predicament hit me like a ton of bricks. "Why?!"
The reality of my situation finally dawned upon me: I was in my teenage self's body. Not a dream or an illusion. I was back in 2012, thirteen years ago. This was no longer a distant memory or a fleeting reminiscence; it was an inescapable and undeniable truth that weighed on my soul like an immense burden.
The cold embrace of death, the feeling of my life being drained from my body. I could feel the sharp claws digging into my abdomen. It was not the sensation of physical pain that overwhelmed me. No. Instead, a wave of despair, and a deep-seated sense of loss and emptiness washed over me, and threatened to consume every aspect of my existence.
"My own room in Hell. I'm here again. Alone." A shiver ran down my spine... "I don't really know anymore."
I stepped out of my room's bathroom, my gaze wandered around. My bedroom, in my grandmother's home. Well, grandparents but...my grandfather died. Everything was the same. Just as it had been before I ran without any explanation given to anyone, and never came back.
A few posters from Tales of Symphonia, an old JRPG from the Gamecube, hung on the wall. Lloyd and Colette stared back at me. My guy, Zelos. I shook my head, and chuckled. I had played that game to the point of exhaustion, back when I was in elementary school, and even now, the fond memories of its storyline lingered in the depths of my consciousness.
I opened the bay window to the balcony of the house, and a cool morning breeze blew in. I'm nestled in a nice neighborhood and it's very silent and calm...Yeah, even in the middle of Paris, this place is oddly quiet and relaxing.
A crow perched by. It didn't blink. Just watched. As if waiting for something to happen. Or to be told. It was always there, as far as I remembered. This crow was always watching my room.
On the desk, in front of the bed, lay the Nintendo DS, and my computer. Most of my things were a gift from my uncle or things he had no use for anymore. And in a corner of the room, a stack of books, ranging from Jules Verne to the most obscure Japanese novels, and an assortment of comics and magazines, piled high, some of which had not seen the light of day in years, while others bore the marks of constant use, with creased and dog-eared pages that hinted at their well-read nature.
"2012... Judging by the posters on the street...Not a single building seems to have changed, so, it's not just a part of a messed-up dream," I said, as if trying to convince myself that all of this wasn't just another nightmare, and that there was a certain level of normalcy, and reality, that was grounding me. But the truth was, that no matter how many times I pinched myself, or how desperately I wished to wake up, nothing had changed.
My wallet nestled snugly on my desk. When I checked the ID inside, it confirmed that I truly was a teenager again. And, the date in the lower left corner of my screen tells me that today is 8th May 2012. That is, if that's the truth.
"So, it's truly 2012. I'm still in Paris, apparently. And this place looks exactly the same as I remember... 8th May, huh? My 16th birthday. That's...ironic, considering that's the last day that was good to me. Everything went downhill from that point on." I pinched my right ear, a nervous tic, that I mostly did unconsciously, whenever faced with a problem or when I was lying to myself, or to others.
Picking my smartphone up, from my pocket, was the natural choice to make. The battery level was at 3%. Guess I should plug this thing in.
After that was done, I picked some stuff from the desk. Some school notes, in French—obviously. My handwriting is terrible, almost illegible. That's awful. I also have some books on various topics.
I skim through the rest of the contents of one of my notebooks. It was a history assignment, about World War II, the Holocaust and a general overview of the events of that period of time. There was also an English test, with a 20/20. I guess I had already learned that language at that point.
Nothing too crazy, I suppose. All of the notes and assignments were from different classes. History, geography, physics, English and math. Then, of course, literature and philosophy. The latter two are probably my favorites. Especially the former, because reading was a passion that had been a part of my life since childhood, and would likely remain an important element of my identity.
Doodles, scribbles, and sketches of characters, dragons and mythical creatures, adorned the margins of the paper. Notes on video games, movies and books were scrawled in the spaces between assignments...Heh, yeah, that's a young version of myself alright. My mind wanders to other thoughts, and memories of that time, and of the past, flood in.
That's a pretty average life, isn't it?
One page is nearing the quality of an illustration. A woman with long flowing hair, her face obscured by shadows. Her attire is something akin to a queen — very regal, yet elegant. She's holding a scepter, and there's a crown on her head. What's most interesting is that the background is full of broken mirrors where faces of people can be seen. Their expressions are sad or angry, and their mouths are open as if screaming in silence.
I scratched the nape of my neck. What a weird thing to draw. I don't even recall drawing that, actually. It's kind of disturbing.
"What is this drawing supposed to represent?"
I'm a bit confused. The picture, in question, depicts a beautiful lady, and the mirrors around her. Is that an original character of mine, or someone from fiction that I might have forgotten, over the course of time?
It's a nice drawing, but I can't shake the feeling of dread that's washing over me. This whole thing feels... wrong, in a way that I can't explain, and the more I look at it, the worse I feel.
"I'll just ignore that for the time being." After flipping the page, the next one was...
Torn and a note was left in place of the page. It's in red, written in a handwriting that is clearly different from my own...Much better. Clean, neat, and readable. It's the kind of handwriting that is a pleasure to read. It's a bit feminine, I guess.
"The letters are appearing on their own!" I shouted. The note started writing itself. One word after another, in the span of only a few seconds. "What the hell?" I exclaimed in surprise. The scratching sound of a pencil on paper resonated in the air as a string of words appeared on the page.
This is happening, and from the look of it...It's very pretentious, self-centered, and narcissistic in its prose.
"To the unlucky — — — — — — —,
You will die—of that, be certain—but not with the tidy neatness ordinary mortals are afforded. No, no, no, that is too quick, too simple a departure from this world, for your case demands a far messier conclusion, one steeped in the blood of both a monster and yourself, a fate fit to etch its name in the annals of existence, the likes of which none will ever see again, a tragedy and an abomination in equal measure, and you will writhe, scream, beg for an end, to no avail.
Live well while you can; I intend to bookmark each heartbeat for later amusement. Until the final chapter is written, I will hover at the edge of your days—smirking when you stumble, arching an eyebrow when you succeed—never quite an enemy or ally, yet always there. Your every moment will belong to me. You will know the terror of feeling a monster gaze in the night, the humiliation of defeat, the agony of betrayal. And at the end, when the pieces lay scattered, you will finally grasp the truth: you are destined to lose.
Soon enough, we will begin the clockwork dance. You will try to run, and fail. Try to hide, and be found. Try to scheme, and discover that, despite your cleverest efforts, the story's outcome has long been penned. And then, when you are battered, bruised, and beaten...
Only then will I tear the mask of fear from your eyes and greet you face to face. But for now, a warning:
This is the fate that you were born for. This is the destiny that no one else could have. Live on the stage that she built. Dance in the cage that I've woven for her.
Until then, little bird. Enjoy the moments. Laugh, cry, live. And above all…
Happy Birthday, The Author..."
I dropped the paper, and it floated to the ground. Then, I picked the notebook and threw it to the other side of the room, in a fit of rage and horror.
The author? What the fuck does that mean?
My fists slammed the desk with a force that rattled the items atop its surface, and the pain shot up my arms, a tangible manifestation of the frustration that coursed through me. The shockwaves echoed in the room, a testimony to the intensity of my outburst. As I stood there, breathing heavily, I realized that this display of aggression had not quelled the anger that had consumed me, but had only amplified it, and fueled a burning desire for retribution.
This guy is nuts! Who the hell writes such things!? What does that even fucking mean!? To mock me? Or to torment me? Laughing at my misfortune. Whoever is, it's a cruel son of a bitch, that's for sure!
"Fuck off, will you?!" I shouted. "Who are you?! Show yourself!"
There was no response. No movement. No sign of anything amiss.
Why? Why is this happening to me? I'm nobody! An absolute nobody. I'm not the smartest person. Nor the strongest, nor the best looking. Not the fastest runner, or the richest man. Hell, not even the luckiest one. If anything, I'd call myself a failure in life. A loser. I've achieved nothing, accomplished nothing, gained and lost nothing...Nothing, at all, to the extent that the mere act of breathing, and simply being, had become an unbearable, insufferable chore. That's the extent to which the flame of ambition, and will, had faded away from within, extinguished, and replaced by a cold, and uncaring, indifference. I've lived in obscurity, in a bubble of ignorance and denial.
"Answer me, damn you!" My voice echoed through the apartment. Nothing. All of this is meaningless. I don't know what to do, and that's the worst part. "What's the meaning of all of this?!" My heart raced in my chest, as the panic, and confusion, that I had felt before, returned with a vengeance, threatening to consume me once more.
Then, in an instant, the atmosphere in the room shifted, and the faintest trace of a smiley face, drawn in red ink, made its appearance on the ceiling, hovering over my head, taunting and mocking, as if the invisible pen was tracing its outline, and filling it in with the color of blood.
I fell on my knees, the sudden revelation hitting me like a brick, the implications, the ramifications, and the consequences of this, all racing through my mind. I wanted to scream, and to cry, but the sheer absurdity of it all, left me in a state of disbelief, and shock. "You..." A shudder ran through me, and my hands trembled. I can't take this. I can't stand it. This is insane.
I've heard that people can sometimes go mad, when faced with the unknown, the unexplained, the illogical. When the veil of sanity is lifted from their eyes, and the abyss gazes back. And now, it was my turn, to experience that, and to learn, firsthand, how terrifying and unsettling that can truly be.
The dam was about to break. My sanity, my psyche, my entire identity, and sense of reality, and of who I am, and where, were about to shatter. I didn't want to face it. Any of this. So, I closed my eyes, and put my head in my hands. And, just as expected, when I looked up at the ceiling again, the image was gone, as if it had never been there to begin with.
A knock on the door startled me, and brought me out of the daze. I got up, and moved towards the source of the noise, wondering who or what could possibly be on the other side of the threshold, at this early hour.