𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐃

02 | MEMORIES

CHAPTER TWO.

[NAME]'s MEMORIES still haunt you.

The nightmares start a year ago. [Name] was an adventurer previously, and that fact is confirmed by the nightmares that plague your mind from time to time—ones that show people falling one by one, dying—ones that show [Name] expelling oxygen from his lungs in rattled motions, blood bursting from his lips. It's a scene nothing short of grotesque.

It's not a pleasant experience or feeling. They come to you in blips and drifts— and in shadowy moments, they strangle and torment you. They seem to take great pride in appearing at your most vulnerable moments: twisting, before they turning into something undefined in the air. They lunge at you with barely concealed fury, like they're mad—like they're screaming at you to get rid of the body that you inhabit.

This isn't you. Get out. Get out! The voices that ring in your head become incessant and unnecessarily loud.

The first time had been a panic fueled moment for you. You remember grasping at the sheets with your fingers fisting the blankets, your eyes opening in horror. Then you remember breathing in and breathing out, and before long, all you could see was the blurriness of inanimate objects appearing before you.

Pillow, vase, picture. Pillow, vase, picture. You repeat the images you see when you first wake up from those nightmares. They become almost like a mantra that helps to remove you from that terrifying memory.

[Name]'s memories make you feel melded into him, somehow, and you feel sure that you don't like it. Your identity seems to have been integrated to become part of his. And you want to tear your flesh apart, burrow out of it. You want to. You want to be your own [Name], and not the [Name] with a secretive past and no parents.

You want to be yourself. That's the trippy part of having been placed in a body that isn't yours for six years—the amount of times you tend to dissociate becomes concerningly high. You'll see the mirror on some days—you'll look at it and go all casual like: hey, that isn't me. But then you blink your eyes and the figure in the mirror does too. You raise your right hand and the figure in the mirror raises their left hand. There's a sense of detachment you feel between your limbs and your joints—the motion no longer feels fluid but seems pressed down, like dead weight, and then your thoughts crumble when you realize that this body is in fact hosting your soul.

There's a tinkling sound of the bell. Someone has entered, but you can't be bothered to look up.

"Off day?" A voice interrupts your thoughts. Your eye bags are more prominent than usual—you had a rough sleep. You can still hear the voices of people you don't know scrambling after you, screaming your name. "Or just no customers?"

You know this person. Myra, four years younger than you, is witty, teasing, and ties her hair into two pigtails as she claims it'll attract more male customers. She's studying to be a full fledged adventurer, and hopes to awaken an attribute soon. She's feisty and has the attitude, but you don't know if she has the talent. She certainly has the grit.