Hall of Infinite Doors
"And this will be your room," the nurse says as she leads you through the heavy metal door and into the cramped, clean little bedroom. Wait... nurse, metal, what? The door you just opened was made of crystal, wasn't it? And there wasn't a nurse there before in the hallway. Things seem hazy and indistinct, and you feel a gush of sudden nausea as your memories swirl and laugh and run away like mice in the beam of a flashlight.
"If there's anything you need, please let us know. Just press the red button and you'll be patched in to this floor's receptionist." The smiling, heavyset nurse taps one red-painted index finger against the smooth plastic face of an intercom panel set into the white walls. You glance up at her. Her spider-seamed face is pulled into an unconvincing grin, and her nondescript skirt and polo shirt are hospital green and accessorized with a small golden cross on a chain and a little bronze pin engraved with the name, 'Nurse Q. Howell'.
You don't remember her. You don't remember anything. You don't remember how you got here, where here is, what you're here for. You don't remember your own name, any details about yourself. You retain a basic amount of skills; the nurse's words make sense to you, and you know how to walk and act and conduct yourself, but any details of identity, of self...
"You look a little woozy," Nurse Howell says, "you should probably rest and get settled in for now. The doctor will want to see you within the hour, but if you're feeling ill then we can prescribe you something and postpone his visit until you're feeling better." She steps back, away from you, and you realize her heavy hand had been sitting on your shoulder until now; your other shoulder has a canvas backpack hanging loosely from it, swinging by a single frayed strap.
"Here at Sungrove we're dedicated to your health and recovery, and part of that is ensuring your comfort during your stay here. I have other patients to see right now, so I'll leave you to get settled in. I hope your stay here is a pleasant and productive one; for now, good morning." She backs through the door, leaving you standing shaky and alone in the middle of the floor. You hear the heavy metal hunker shut behind you; the unwholesome sliding smack of a lock clicking into place.
You take in your surroundings. Your room is small, with space enough for a white-sheeted single bed, a pair of wall-mounted empty shelves and three doors set into the white walls. Testing them shows one to lead into a shallow closet and the other to an even more cramped bathroom; the third door, the one the nurse exited through, is securely locked. Sunlight filters in through a high window, mulled by the crisscrossed bars overlayed. The room is very quiet, though the muted sounds of birdsong and conversation sneak in from outside.
You're feeling very woozy and nauseous. You can't remember anything about yourself. You only retain snippets of life: muffled conversations, colors and smells, the tunes of distant songs and the sounds of names without faces. Everything pertaining to your identity is gone, even the feeling that something is wrong about that. All you feel is sick.
"If there's anything you need, please let us know. Just press the red button and you'll be patched in to this floor's receptionist." The smiling, heavyset nurse taps one red-painted index finger against the smooth plastic face of an intercom panel set into the white walls. You glance up at her. Her spider-seamed face is pulled into an unconvincing grin, and her nondescript skirt and polo shirt are hospital green and accessorized with a small golden cross on a chain and a little bronze pin engraved with the name, 'Nurse Q. Howell'.
You don't remember her. You don't remember anything. You don't remember how you got here, where here is, what you're here for. You don't remember your own name, any details about yourself. You retain a basic amount of skills; the nurse's words make sense to you, and you know how to walk and act and conduct yourself, but any details of identity, of self...
"You look a little woozy," Nurse Howell says, "you should probably rest and get settled in for now. The doctor will want to see you within the hour, but if you're feeling ill then we can prescribe you something and postpone his visit until you're feeling better." She steps back, away from you, and you realize her heavy hand had been sitting on your shoulder until now; your other shoulder has a canvas backpack hanging loosely from it, swinging by a single frayed strap.
"Here at Sungrove we're dedicated to your health and recovery, and part of that is ensuring your comfort during your stay here. I have other patients to see right now, so I'll leave you to get settled in. I hope your stay here is a pleasant and productive one; for now, good morning." She backs through the door, leaving you standing shaky and alone in the middle of the floor. You hear the heavy metal hunker shut behind you; the unwholesome sliding smack of a lock clicking into place.
You take in your surroundings. Your room is small, with space enough for a white-sheeted single bed, a pair of wall-mounted empty shelves and three doors set into the white walls. Testing them shows one to lead into a shallow closet and the other to an even more cramped bathroom; the third door, the one the nurse exited through, is securely locked. Sunlight filters in through a high window, mulled by the crisscrossed bars overlayed. The room is very quiet, though the muted sounds of birdsong and conversation sneak in from outside.
You're feeling very woozy and nauseous. You can't remember anything about yourself. You only retain snippets of life: muffled conversations, colors and smells, the tunes of distant songs and the sounds of names without faces. Everything pertaining to your identity is gone, even the feeling that something is wrong about that. All you feel is sick.