identity
A new scene came from the void. A room that he remembers very well: the living room of his house in the shelter, Miller's Circle. In the room, a younger version of himself sat, writing a message on a clear tablet.
He approached his younger self, quietly. He didn't seem to notice him. He sat on a chair opposite to young wagner, and looked at the words on the screen. A farewell message, filled with regret and sorrow, addressed to a redacted name.
Strange. He never had a family or loved ones. Who am I writing to? he asked himself. Who would he even need to write to?
The words on the screen faded. No, it was always empty.
He looked at his younger self. His face was clear, yet unfamiliar. A face nearly his, but slightly off. It kept changing, becoming someone he doesn't know. Someone strange to him.
A wave of confusion fell upon him. It obscured his vision and clouded his thoughts, more and more with each passing moment.
He got up from the couch. Moving towards the young stranger behind the desk.
As he moved, it became increasingly difficult to focus. He struggled to cling to awareness, to grasp onto the short-lived fragments of his identity.
Panic filled him as he trembled on the edge of consciousness. He fell to the ground trying as hard as he can to stay conscious.
Struggling to keep his eyes open, he faces the mirror near the bed. There was nothing staring back at him. Was this what he once looked like? What did he look like? he can't remember. who was he?
With one final effort, he searched for identity. What face? What name? What shape has ever belonged to him? No answers came. His mind tried. Words fell apart before they could form.
Did I ever—?
Was I—?
The thought was gone. His mind was gone. He was gone.