Strange Old Shores, Deathly Far From Here

I lay motionless on the third floor of an badly-kept apartment building, sitting just at the edge of town.

It's hard to focus on who I am, what's going on, how long it's been since I got here. But I am nevertheless strangely calm, as I've taught myself to be. There aren't any worthwhile dangers here, at least not for a significant period of time. I can use this time to think, to remember.

The soft ticking of an ornate grandfather clock behind me keeps me from drifting off again. A few disorganized memories enter my head.

I don't remember this room. I remember a corridor, some sort of corridor, and a staircase. The lighting wasn't ideal, and there was a nasty patch of black mold on the ceiling. The carpet was rancid and musty, and smelled like what must've been months' buildup of spilled coffee and carelessness.

My hand glides cautiously across that same carpet, and I finally begin to draw the proper connections. The turning of a door handle. The corridor fading away, and I see this room. I do remember this room. I've been in here for hours now. How many times have I woken up?

It was night then, and now it appears mid-afternoon. I catch myself standing, looking out of a window, almost as if my body is acting separately from my mind. And then I'm back on the floor. That wasn't real.

The ticking has stopped. I'm by myself. And then the door opens again, and several hundred people poor into the room. The ticking gets insanely loud, and my ears bleed and my lungs give in and my whole body shatters. And everything collapses into a cloud of dust and asbestos, and the faceless people emanate party chatter, and TV static, and incoherent classical music.

And my eyes flutter in the light of the chandelier above me, increasing in brightness sevenfold. And the window blasts open, and the whole room swallows me.

I wake up, it wasn't real. I don't remember who I am.