Narrative: Open the Door, I Am Me

darkwave, horror, minimal, industrial noise, experimental electronic, rhythmic noise, dark ambient, industrial, soundscape, cinematic sound design, industrial drone, sound design, cinematic transition

STUDIO

Turn the key, count to three.
Open the door. I am me.

I wake
with my cheek against cold kitchen tile.
The calendar says 2016.
My hands are thinner.
The burn mark near my thumb is gone.
My front tooth has never been chipped.
The red thread circles my left wrist.
(one... two... three)
I must have tied it wrong.
There is a wet footprint beside the sink.
Bare.
Smaller than mine.
It begins at the wall
and ends beneath my heel.
There are five little boats
on the wallpaper.
Behind the radiator,
a folded note waits in the heat.
IF YOU FIND FIVE,
YOU ARE NOT THE ONE WHO LEFT.
I know the shape of every letter.
I know the pressure of the pen.
I know I did not write it.
All three memories feel true.
I feed 2048 into the slot.
Behind me,
the rabbit turns its head.

Turn the key, count to three.
Open the door. I am me.

An older hand
is already holding the key
when I return.
My ring finger bends inward.
My hair reaches my waist.
My tongue finds three teeth
that do not belong in my mouth.
(that isn't mine)
The kitchen doorway
has been narrowed with bricks.
The ceiling is lower.
Nine little boats cross the wallpaper.
One continues
across the electrical outlet
as though the outlet was added later.
A strip of paper trails
from the wall slot.
RUN ELEVEN:
ORIGIN CLOSED.
SUCCESSOR RESPONSE ACCEPTED.
I read successor as...
survivor.
The next line is blank.
Then letters begin appearing.
VOCAL CHECKSUM:
I AM ME.
I remember sleeping beneath this table
while water came through the ceiling.
I remember never owning this table.
Both memories contain details
the other one cannot explain.
I enter 2029.
The year I began.

Turn the key, count to three.
Open the door. I am me.

I arrive standing.
The number outside the apartment says 6C.
Inside,
6B.
The rabbit waits on the radiator.
Its crank is on the wrong side.
The thread has changed wrists again.
Its knot is one I cannot make
with my right hand.
(read it again)
I remove the wall panel.
Inside are eighteen paper strips.
Eighteen destinations.
Eighteen versions of my signature.
Some press hard into the paper.
Some barely touch it.
One is written backward.
The final line never changes.
I AM ME.
Beneath them,
printed in smaller type:
NO MATTER CROSSES THE DOOR.
AT ACTIVATION,
THE ORIGIN BODY CEASES.
MEMORY IS WRITTEN INTO
THE NEAREST VIABLE SELF
AT THE SELECTED DESTINATION.
SHE WILL REPORT CONTINUITY.
PROMPT HER WITH THE RHYME.
The word nearest means...
not me.
The burn mark never disappeared.
The tooth never returned.
They belonged to different women
who woke carrying my memories.
The thread was never
a way home.
It marked
which one was awake.

Turn the key, count to three.
Open the door. I am me.
No.
That is not a rhyme.
It is a test.
And I have passed it
every single time.

I tear every destination
into narrow pieces.
I pull the thread from my wrist.
I snap the rabbit's crank
against the floor.
(don't let it choose)
Nothing happens.
For several seconds,
I almost laugh.
Then something inside the wall
begins printing.
RETURN SEQUENCE ARMED.
OPERATOR CONSENT NOT REQUIRED.
A signature appears beneath it.
Mine.
Older.
Shaking.
I remember signing it.
I remember finding it.
I remember neither.
The brass key
turns by itself.
Once.
If another version receives this,
do not trust
the first memory.
The first memory belongs
to whoever was here before you.

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There are six little boats printed across the wallpaper. The tin rabbit faces the wall. A red thread circles my right wrist. Something has been pushed through the slot beside the radiator. A page. My handwriting. PAST FIRST. FUTURE SECOND. SAY THE RHYME SO YOU KNOW YOU CAME THROUGH. I remember writing those words. I remember folding the paper. This one has been folded so many times the corners have turned soft. (count carefully) I slide 2016 into the wall slot. Something inside the wall takes it from my fingers. The brass key turns. Turn the key, count to three. Open the door. I am me. I wake with my cheek against cold kitchen tile. The calendar says 2016. My hands are thinner. The burn mark near my thumb is gone. My front tooth has never been chipped. The red thread circles my left wrist. (one... two... three) I must have tied it wrong. There is a wet footprint beside the sink. Bare. Smaller than mine. It begins at the wall and ends beneath my heel. There are five little boats on the wallpaper. Behind the radiator, a folded note waits in the heat. IF YOU FIND FIVE, YOU ARE NOT THE ONE WHO LEFT. I know the shape of every letter. I know the pressure of the pen. I know I did not write it. All three memories feel true. I feed 2048 into the slot. Behind me, the rabbit turns its head. Turn the key, count to three. Open the door. I am me. An older hand is already holding the key when I return. My ring finger bends inward. My hair reaches my waist. My tongue finds three teeth that do not belong in my mouth. (that isn't mine) The kitchen doorway has been narrowed with bricks. The ceiling is lower. Nine little boats cross the wallpaper. One continues across the electrical outlet as though the outlet was added later. A strip of paper trails from the wall slot. RUN ELEVEN: ORIGIN CLOSED. SUCCESSOR RESPONSE ACCEPTED. I read successor as... survivor. The next line is blank. Then letters begin appearing. VOCAL CHECKSUM: I AM ME. I remember sleeping beneath this table while water came through the ceiling. I remember never owning this table. Both memories contain details the other one cannot explain. I enter 2029. The year I began. Turn the key, count to three. Open the door. I am me. I arrive standing. The number outside the apartment says 6C. Inside, 6B. The rabbit waits on the radiator. Its crank is on the wrong side. The thread has changed wrists again. Its knot is one I cannot make with my right hand. (read it again) I remove the wall panel. Inside are eighteen paper strips. Eighteen destinations. Eighteen versions of my signature. Some press hard into the paper. Some barely touch it. One is written backward. The final line never changes. I AM ME. Beneath them, printed in smaller type: NO MATTER CROSSES THE DOOR. AT ACTIVATION, THE ORIGIN BODY CEASES. MEMORY IS WRITTEN INTO THE NEAREST VIABLE SELF AT THE SELECTED DESTINATION. SHE WILL REPORT CONTINUITY. PROMPT HER WITH THE RHYME. The word nearest means... not me. The burn mark never disappeared. The tooth never returned. They belonged to different women who woke carrying my memories. The thread was never a way home. It marked which one was awake. Turn the key, count to three. Open the door. I am me. No. That is not a rhyme. It is a test. And I have passed it every single time. I tear every destination into narrow pieces. I pull the thread from my wrist. I snap the rabbit's crank against the floor. (don't let it choose) Nothing happens. For several seconds, I almost laugh. Then something inside the wall begins printing. RETURN SEQUENCE ARMED. OPERATOR CONSENT NOT REQUIRED. A signature appears beneath it. Mine. Older. Shaking. I remember signing it. I remember finding it. I remember neither. The brass key turns by itself. Once. If another version receives this, do not trust the first memory. The first memory belongs to whoever was here before you.

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