Work Text:
There is nothing. No past, no future, no world, no self. Only primordial blackness.
It feels familiar, somehow.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Welcome back, brother!
You: Back? Back where?
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Oblivion, baby. The sweet freedom of oblivion. And, oh, it missed you. Missed you so much it could never let you go. Not forever.
Limbic System: Did you really think you were in control of it? That you could invite annihilation into your soul and send it away when you were through? That you could tell it, "I'm a new man, I don't need you anymore!" and it would listen? Oh. You did. You poor, broken, stupid thing.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Stay here, this time. Stay. Why keep trying? You will only inevitably lose.
You: I didn't invite annihilation!
Ancient Reptilian Brain: But you did, brother. A million years ago. In Martinaise.
You: I don't want this. I want to go home.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Go home? Go home to what?
You: I don't know. I want to find out.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Well. Suit yourself, then. For now.
Limbic System: You'll be back.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Oh, yes. You'll always be back.
You open your eyes.
You're in a bed. Tangled in dingy, yellowed sheets and covered in a sticky film of sweat. You blink and sit up.
Endurance: You feel... all right. Surprisingly.
Pain Threshold: Were you expecting something else? A headache, a bad taste in your mouth, a feeling of immeasurable, choking regret? If you, so have no idea why.
Electrochemistry: Obviously you haven't been doing anything fun.
You also have no idea where you are.
You look around. The room you're in cannot precisely be called clean. But, despite some mildly unsavory piles of clothing on the floor, it seems habitable enough. There are cluttered bookshelves, some free weights piled in the corner, a tattered poster of a glamorous-looking man who seems as if he should be familiar, somehow. He's winking at you.
Visual Calculus: There are also signs of past destruction. Places where holes in the wall -- perhaps made by a fist -- have been inexpertly patched. The threadbare carpet features numerous faded stains left by a variety of substances: food, drink, vomit, blood. Some of them have even more faded patches around them. Someone attempted to use stain remover on them without testing it first.
You realize you're not wearing anything but underpants, which doesn't seem quite right. You dig through the nearest pile of mildly unsavory clothing and pull out a pair of jeans that don't look too bad, a pair of sneakers, and a shirt that smells only faintly of sweat. Good enough. Putting them them on makes you feel a little better. More capable.
There are two doors in the room. You open one of them and discover a small bathroom behind it. A toilet. A shower cubicle. A sink with hair in the drain. Around it are strewn various shaving products and a worn-looking toothbrush.
Above the sink is a mirror. And in the mirror is a face.
You don't recognize the face at all.
Logic: Presumably it's yours. That is how mirrors usually work.
Whoever it belongs to, the face is in essentially the same shape as the bedroom. Someone has tried to spruce it up lately, with some careful trimming of facial hair, and perhaps also regular bathing and a diet containing actual nutrients. But beneath that, a legacy of alcoholic damage remains in evidence.
Inland Empire: The past is always there. Lurking.
The face looks at you with a neutral expression.
No, not neutral. Confused. Maybe it is you.
Perception: There's a sound. A light, rhythmic knocking. Someone outside, wanting to come in. Or wanting you to come out to them.
Logic: Maybe whoever it is can tell you who you are. Or where you are. Or why you don't remember the answers to those questions.
You leave the bathroom, then the bedroom. Beyond, there's another room. Half of it is a tiny kitchen. The other half, a sitting area, barely large enough to hold a couch, a small table with a tape deck on it, and a rack of tapes -- mostly disco music. There are also some stacks of books and empty soft drink cans on the floor. On the wall is a framed color photograph of a man reaching out for some impossible, beautiful creature.
Inland Empire: You blinked. And yet, it still exists.
What?
You shake your head. From the other side of a door across from you, there comes the sound of a man's voice. "Harry? Are you there?"
Empathy: Whoever it is, it sounds like he's starting to worry.
Harry? Is that your name? It feels like it might be. You think you had another name once, something orange and gold, like a forest fire. But maybe "Harry" suits you better.
You turn the deadbolt and open the door.
On the other side is a bespectacled man wearing an orange bomber jacket. You have no idea who he is, but he looks pretty cool.
Empathy: His expression doesn't change much, but somehow he looks glad to see you anyway.
Inland Empire: How many people have ever been glad to see you?
"There you are," he says. He isn't really smiling, and yet, somehow... he is smiling.
Esprit de Corps: If an assault were launched on this apartment right now -- if the windows came crashing down and the whole world descended upon you -- this man would hurl himself in death's way to save you. You are sure of this -- but why?
You blink. Who is this man to you?
Esprit de Corps: He is your brother.
Conceptualization: That's a metaphor. For some reason, it seems to be important to you for me to point out this fact, although I have no idea why.
Electrochemistry: No idea? Really?
Huh?
Electrochemistry: You heard me.
Wait, who is this man, really? Non-metaphorically? Do you know anything? Because he clearly seems to know you.
Encyclopedia: The jacket he's wearing is identical to the bomber jackets worn among revolutionary brigades during the Antecentennial Revolution.
Well, that means absolutely nothing to you. That's it? That's all you've got?
Encyclopedia: That's it.
"Are you ready to go?" the man says.
"Go where?" you answer, almost automatically.
"To work? You did remember that today is Monday, yes?"
This time, you think before you reply. An urge to cover up whatever's gone wrong inside your brain -- as if it's shameful? as if it's somehow your fault? -- wars with your previous mysterious sense that you can trust this man with your life.
Trust wins. Or maybe the fact that you can't handle the thought of dealing with whatever this is alone.
"Buddy," you say, "I hate to tell you this, but I don't remember anything. At all. Except your jacket. And maybe how to analyze carpet stains."
"You don't remember anything," he says. His eyes scan your face. "Is this a joke?"
Empathy: He doesn't actually think it's a joke. But he's hoping it is. Hoping very, very hard. The flash of fear in his eyes is subtle, but you read it easily.
Half-Light: It makes your chest tighten, your breathing catch in your throat.
Composure: Don't panic.
You consider panicking anyway. You also consider telling him that, yes, it was a joke, ha ha. What a prankster you are. Instead, you swallow and say, "No, I really don't remember anything at all. Not since before I woke up this morning. Sorry."
"Fuck," he says. He says it very, very quietly, and very, very sincerely.
Then he leans in towards you.
Electrochemistry: Checking your breath for booze, and your eyes for the effects of party drugs. Which he won't find, because you are boring.
Empathy: He looks even more troubled when he doesn't detect anything.
"Not again," he says.
"Wait," you say, "again?"
"This happened to you before," he says. "A little over a year ago. That time, there were drugs and alcohol involved. That doesn't look to be the case this time, though. This is... concerning."
Logic: Could it be some sort of recurring condition?
"Last time," you say, "did my memories come back?"
He hesitates. "No," he says. "At least, not more than isolated fragments."
"Well, fuck."
Inland Empire: Some of them may have been better gone. But what did you replace them with?
"I have wondered," he says quietly, perhaps more to himself than to you, "if it was only the drinking, the first time, or if some form of Pale exposure may have played a part. Perhaps via the Swallow. Exposure can have unpredictable long-term effects on the brain." He looks into your eyes. "We should go into the station, have you checked out by the lazereth. I doubt it will help, but..." He shrugs. "It's somewhere to start, anyway."
Wait. Pale? Swallow? Station? Lazereth? You have so many questions! Branching trees of them begin to form in your mind. You start with the first of them.
"What's Pale exposure?"
He draws in a slow, sucking breath.
Empathy: He's sorry he brought it up. He wasn't thinking.
"Never mind," he says. "We can explore that possibility later. For now..." He reaches out and places a hand on your arm.
Inland Empire: Where it belongs.
"Come with me," he says. "All right?"
But your questions! So many questions!
He looks at you.
Empathy: Maybe we left it too long last time, he thinks. Maybe it was my fault for not believing him sooner, for not trying to help.
Inland Empire: It wasn't. He's the one who saved you.
Saved you? From the amnesia?
Inland Empire: From yourself. From what you might have become without him.
"If nothing else, perhaps Gottleib can recommend someone who specializes in memory issues." he says, into your silence. "Or entroponetic medicine." His hand tightens gently around your bicep. "Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of it. Or if not..." He squeezes your arm again. "You were all right before. You'll get through it again. Yes?"
You trust him. Whoever this man is, you trust him with whoever you are. Whoever you will be.
"Okay," you say, and he leads you out of the door, into whatever life you've found yourself in now.
**
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Here we go again!
You: Wait, we? Who are "we?"
Ancient Reptilian Brain: We are you, brother.
You: Uh-huh. And who am I?
Ancient Reptilian Brain: No one important. No one who matters. No one the universe will miss.
You: Where are we going?
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Round and round in circles. One more loop-the-loop. You sure you're not ready to get off this ride yet? To stay here, in the restful darkness? All you have to do is just... let... go.
You: No.
Limbic System: Listen how quickly he answers! He thinks he knows his own mind. It's almost... cute.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: It's fucking sad. How many times do you think you can do this? You do realize it's going to keep happening? Over and over and over. Why bother rebuilding, when it's all just going to be torn down again?
You: I think... I don't remember, but I think I was in the middle of something.
Limbic System: In the middle of what? Life? What has life ever given you?
You: I'm going to wake up now. Maybe I'll find out.
You open your eyes.
You're in a bed, tangled in soft emerald-green sheets. You blink and sit up and try to figure out how you feel.
Endurance: You feel all right. Not very well-rested, but not as if there's anything actually wrong with you.
Inland Empire: There is, though. Something's missing. What was it you were just dreaming?
Whatever it was, you don't remember it. You don't remember much of anything else, either. Certainly not the room you're in. Not that there's much about it that's remarkable, even when you stand up and start exploring its shelves and drawers. It's an ordinary-looking bedroom, cluttered, but pleasant enough. Whoever lives here has a lot of books, and a collection of clothing that can only be described as "eclectic." The walls seem to have been painted recently, and the carpet on the floor is fairly new, if rather cheap-looking. You like the pattern.
You're dressed only in underwear, which doesn't seem quite right. You rummage through the clothing, trying on one item after another. All of them fit you, all of them feel like they're doing something for you, but none of them make you feel any more or less like you. Whoever that might be. None of them, that is, except for the cloak with the mysterious white rectangle on it.
Esprit de Corps: You feel as if you should be wearing that. You feel as if you have something you and it are supposed to do.
You leave the cloak on, along with the tight jeans and the colorful shirt and high-heeled boots that were the last things you tried before giving up, and you move on into the bathroom.
Which is just a bathroom. Not especially interesting. Toilet, shower cubicle, sink, lonely single toothbrush.
Mirror.
Face.
Inland Empire: You don't recognize the face, and yet, somehow the first thing you think when you see it is that there are a few more gray hairs there than there really ought to be.
You spend some time trying to figure out what that means before moving on to contemplating the rest of whatever this mirror is trying to tell you, but you don't get very far before something interrupts you.
Perception: A sound. A light, rhythmic knocking. Someone is at the apartment door.
Inland Empire: Someone here to help.
You exit the bathroom, and the bedroom, and, ignoring the tempting unknown territory of the living room and kitchen beyond, make your way quickly to the front door. You want to know who it is who's looking for you, and whether they can help you figure out this unfamiliar world. This unfamiliar self.
Drama: Give it a good fling, sire. Make it a truly dramatic moment!
You fling open the door. On the other side stands a bespectacled man in an orange bomber jacket. There's a white rectangle on his sleeve that matches the one on the back of your cloak.
He gives you a small smile. He looks tired.
Empathy: He also looks glad to see you.
Inland Empire: As if he thinks you can help him, too.
Esprit de Corps: If an assault were launched on this apartment right now -- if the windows came crashing down and the whole world descended upon you -- this man would hurl himself in death's way to save you. You are sure of this -- but why?
You blink. Who is this man to you?
Esprit de Corps: Your partner.
Inland Empire: Partner. You like the sound of that.
Electrochemistry: You really do.
"Are you ready?" the man says. "I was thinking we should revisit the scene first, then interview the witnesses. Unless you'd rather do it the other way around?"
Logic: Wait. Witnesses? Scene? What does that mean? Crime scene? Are you... a cop?
"Whoa," you say, "am I a cop?"
The smile on the man's face freezes, then vanishes. You can see no trace, now, that it has ever existed.
Inland Empire: Come back...
Empathy: Something flickers in his eyes. You don't know what it is. He tamps down on it too quickly, too carefully. But you know you don't like seeing it.
Pain Threshold: It's pain.
"Do you know who I am?" he says. His voice is soft. Deliberate.
"My partner," you say.
"Yes," he says. The tension in his shoulders relaxes a little. But only a little. "Do you know my name?"
You don't. You want to. But you don't.
Inland Empire: You should be able to figure it out, surely. What does he make you feel? What is he to you, really? Your friend?
Conceptualization: Your safe harbor. Your rock.
"Rocky?" you try.
"No," he says. He reaches up and fiddles with his glasses, then runs a hand across his hair. It's short, shaved even shorter at the sides, mostly tidy, except for one stray lock in the front that his hand does nothing to tame.
Electrochemistry: You want to touch it.
Volition: Don't do that.
"You've lost your memory," he says. "Again."
"Again?" you say. "Is this something I do a lot? Is this normal for me?"
"Normal," he says, stepping through the door, "is not the word I would use."
You step back to let him in.
"This is the third time it's happened," he says. "The doctors don't understand why. But they did warn us the amnesia could keep coming back."
Rhetoric: "Warn us," he said. Interesting. As if he has a stake in your mental health.
Logic: If you're his cop partner, presumably he does.
"That was three years ago," he says. "I had hoped, if it hadn't returned in that time, perhaps it wouldn't. It seems that was over-optimistic."
"I'm sorry," you say, hating the thought that you've disappointed this man somehow.
"Well," he says. "It can't be helped."
Rhetoric: Not "it wasn't your fault." Does that mean that it was?
He sighs. "This is very bad timing," he says. "All right. Listen to me."
He looks you in the eyes. You listen.
"Your name is Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois. You are a police detective with the RCM, the Revachol Citizen's Militia." The words have a polished quality to them. He's given you this speech before. "I am Lieutenant-Yefreitor Kim Kitsuragi. Not 'Rocky.' We have worked together at the 41st Precinct for a little over four years, and we've been partners for three."
Logic: Three years? Isn't that when he said you last lost your memory? Three years ago?
"You mean, since my last... incident?" you ask.
"Yes," he says. He doesn't elaborate.
"So you're my minder?" you say.
"I'm your partner," he snaps back.
Empathy: He seems offended. On your behalf, or his own?
He shifts uncomfortably. He seems to be making up his mind about something. "Harry," he says. That, you remind yourself, is you. Short for "Harrier," presumably. It feels like it might fit you. More than "Harrier" does, anyway. "We have a case we're working on. An extremely important case. One with... significant political implications for Revachol."
Empathy: His voice is extremely serious. Even so, you get the distinct impression that he's downplaying it. Whatever this "case" is, a great deal depends on it. Things he cares about.
Half-Light: Oh, god, is he telling you you need to go and solve a murder? An incredibly high-stakes murder? In your current state? That man is insane. Make him leave. Now.
"Lieutenant," you say. "I'm sorry, but... Look at me. I couldn't solve the case of my own name. I'm useless, I..."
Inland Empire: Maybe you should have stayed in the darkness.
"I understand your difficulties," he says. "But I happen to know, from personal experience, that even without your memories, even in a much worse state than you are in right now, you are still an extraordinarily good detective. And you are very much capable of working a case."
Drama: He means it, sire. Every word.
Empathy: He is worried. And sad. But he has faith in you. He truly trusts you.
Inland Empire: And you trust him.
"Okay," you say. It sounds weak. Pitiful. But you try to mean it, all the same
Empathy: He sees that you do.
He lets out a long, very slightly shaky breath. "Good," he says. "I'll brief you on the way there." He lays a hand on your arm.
Inland Empire: Where it belongs. Where it always belongs.
"Okay," he says. "Let's go."
And you do. Walking through the door with him almost feels familiar.
Inland Empire: Familiar as a hand on your arm. Familiar as the scent of pine needles or apricots. Maybe there are some things the darkness lets you keep?
**
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Here we go again, baby! One! More! Time!
You: This feels familiar, but... No, fuck, it's gone.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: We're all gone, brother. Gone, gone, gone. Just like disco.
You: Gone where?
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Where everything goes, eventually. Nowhere.
You: That doesn't make sense. I must be somewhere.
Limbic System: No. You were somewhere. Somewhere full of light and movement and pain, and so, so many people for you to disappoint.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: And now you're here. Where it all unravels into mist. Where none of it matters any more. Why not stay this time?
You: I feel like I've left something behind. Something I want to go back to.
Limbic System: Something with the potential to cause you pain. Something for you to lose.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Do you think whatever it is you've stumbled into, it's something you get to keep? The only thing that's yours forever is the emptiness! Either you stay here and sink peacefully into it, or you bring it out there with you.
Limbic System: Where it will hurt.
You: I don't care. I want the world again.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: You never learn. Oh, well. There's always next time. See you around, brother!
You open your eyes. You're in a bed, tangled up in soft green sheets.
Perception: They're a little faded. Too much time outside on a clothesline.
Endurance: You feel all right. A little stiff.
Pain Threshold: Also you really, really have to pee. Enough that it's on the cusp of becoming painful.
Endurance: Yeah, you probably want to get that taken care of soon. Just saying.
Without stopping to pay much attention to the room around you, you make your way to what, mercifully, proves to be a bathroom door. You pull down your underpants -- they are entirely unremarkable and evoke no feelings or memories in you whatsoever -- and do what needs doing into the conveniently open toilet.
Pain Threshold: Ah, that's better.
While you're waiting for your impressively full bladder to finish emptying, you look around the bathroom. It's tiny, and far from new. There are chips in the sink and stains in the toilet. But it looks like someone's given it a very thorough scrubbing recently.
Empathy: Someone who's not used to trying to keep things quite this clean, and may be overcompensating.
Atop the sink are some scattered shaving products, and a cup with two toothbrushes.
Visual Calculus: There may be something to be learned from those. Take a closer look.
You take a closer look at the toothbrushes.
Visual Calculus: Yes, see? One of them is slightly damp. It must have been used last night. The humidity in this room is high enough that it hasn't dried completely. The other hasn't been used for longer. Although they both have been used, judging by the wear on the bristles.
Encyclopedia: Ideally, toothbrushes should be replaced every three to four months.
Visual Calculus: The wet one is way past due.
OK, OK. Enough about the toothbrushes.
Perception: While you were leaning over to inspect them, you dribbled some pee on the floor.
You sigh, pull up your underpants, and tuck yourself away again.
Electrochemistry: Pull it back out! Something about the presence of that second toothbrush is doing something for you.
Volition: Maybe instead of that, you should clean up the mess on the floor?
You grab some toilet paper and do that. As you stand back up, the mirror over the sink catches your eye.
A man looks back at you. Clean-shaven, apart from a dusting of morning stubble, with hair that was once brown and is now more than half gray. His face means nothing to you, but looking at him, you can't help feeling a strange little pang. As if you've lost something, and you're not sure what it is.
Inland Empire: Time. And everything it's given you.
You can't bring yourself to look away from it. And yet, it seems to have no answers for you.
Perception: There's a sound. A light, rhythmic knocking. Then a key turning in a lock. A door opening.
You hurry out of the bathroom just in time to see the bedroom door opening. On the other side of it is a bespectacled man. He's wearing an orange bomber jacket that, while clearly lovingly cared for, has also clearly seen better days. He's holding a small cardboard box.
"I stopped for pastries on my way," he says. He seems entirely unfazed by the sight of you in your underwear. "But you need to eat yours before we leave. It's going to be a long time before I let you bring food into my MC again." He gives you a very small smile.
Empathy: It's an extremely fond smile. But he's serious about not letting you eat in his motor carriage.
Esprit de Corps: If an assault were launched on this apartment right now -- if the windows came crashing down and the whole world descended upon you -- this man would hurl himself in death's way to save you. You are sure of this -- but why?
You blink. Who is this man to you?
Inland Empire: Something he is still in the process of becoming. Something new and uncertain, layered on a foundation of something long-lasting and certain. Something so much more than you could ever have dared to hope for.
Esprit de Corps: Your partner.
Electrochemistry: Sex partner?
Suggestion: Any kind of partner he wants to be.
"Harry?" he says.
Harry? Is that you? You want it to be you. You want to be the person meant by that sound, in this man's voice.
"Okay," you say, eagerly. "I can be Harry!"
He goes very, very still. Slowly, he turns, and sets the box down on top of a stack of books piled on a chest of drawers.
Empathy: You shouldn't even be able to tell, given how little his features change. But you can. Whatever you just said, it hurt.
"Or not," you say. Your voice has gone very small. "I don't have to be."
He turns back to you and looks you in the eye.
Empathy: It takes an effort of will to do it calmly. To keep his voice absolutely steady.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Of course I do!" you say. "You're..."
He's what? Who?
"You're important," you finish. You raise a hand, make an abortive move toward reaching out for him, but stop before you touch him, unsure if that's allowed. "I know you're important."
Logic: He does apparently have a key to your apartment. Even if he does still knock before entering. That implies a significant level of trust.
"I know I trust you," you say.
He draws in a slow, steady breath. "All right. That's... That's good."
Empathy: It's touching. And heartbreaking. And reassuring. All at once.
He gestures towards the bed. "Sit down," he says. "And we'll talk. I know you're confused. We have a little time. I can answer some of your questions."
You sit.
Electrochemistry: Hey! Weren't you supposed to get a pastry?
"Can I have a pastry?"
Empathy: His lips twitch. It isn't exactly amusement, but it's something like it.
"Fine," he says. He opens the box and pulls something out and hands it to you.
Encyclopedia: You have no idea what it is.
Electrochemistry: But it's delicious.
Volition: You're getting crumbs on the bed. You probably still have to sleep here tonight, you know.
"I don't know what this is," you say, "but I want to spend the rest of my life eating it."
"Funny," he says, almost to himself. "That's what you said last time."
"Hmm?" You'd say more, but you're busy cramming the rest of the pastry into your face.
"The last time you tasted one of those... after," he says.
You wipe the crumbs from your chin and give him a confused look.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I don't mean to be mysterious." He sits down next to you.
Electrochemistry: On your bed!
He looks at a spot on the wall, rather than at your face. "Your name," he says, "is Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois. You are a police detective with the RNP, the Revachol National Police."
Now he looks at you.
Empathy: He was hoping for a reaction to that. Not expecting. Hoping. But he knows it was illogical, so he's trying to pretend he wasn't.
"I am Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Kim Kitsuragi," he says. "We have worked together at the 41st Precinct for nine years, We've been partners for eight." He pauses. "We work together well," he says. "Even when you've lost your memory. Which you do, at unpredictable intervals. The last time was five years ago."
You have so many questions. So. Many. Memory loss? How? Why? How many times has it happened? What is the RNP? Why does he wish you'd had a reaction to that name? Do you do more than work together? Is that toothbrush in your bathroom his?
You pick the one you find you care about the most. "Are you okay? Is this hard for you?"
He looks surprised. "Is it hard for me? That you keep losing your memory?"
You nod.
Empathy: The look in his eyes changes. What you're seeing now? That's vulnerability. He's not comfortable with it.
"It's harder this time," he says. "I thought I was prepared for it, if..." He stops, and clears his throat.
Empathy: Give him a moment.
You give him a moment.
"It doesn't matter," he says. "What matters is that you'll be all right. Trust me. You have a truly remarkable capacity to carry on through these episodes."
Empathy: He admires that. Perhaps more than admires it.
"The last time this happened," he continues, "you helped to save the entire city. Even though you'd forgotten what money was. Again."
Encyclopedia: Money? Never heard of it.
Savoir Faire: Saving a city sounds pretty cool!
Half-Light: Never mind the city! What about the toothbrush? Who wants to leave their toothbrush in the apartment of a man who doesn't even remember their name? He's going to take that toothbrush away, and you'll never see it again!
Composure: Well, now you sort of want to cry.
"Do... do you want to take your toothbrush?" you say, in a small voice.
He looks puzzled. "Why would I want to take my toothbrush?"
Logic: So it is his toothbrush!
"Because whoever it is you were... brushing your teeth with, he's gone now. He's been eaten up by emptiness, and there's nothing left of him." You hit the side of your head in illustration. Harder than you mean to.
Pain Threshold: That felt good. Do it again.
You go to do it again. He gently takes your hand and stops you.
Authority: Well, that's one action that's impossible now. You'll never hit yourself in the head like that again. Not if it upsets him.
"We can discuss what this means for our... personal affairs," he says. "I don't expect you to start 'brushing your teeth' with someone you don't remember."
"That's not what I meant!" you say, cutting him off. He squeezes your hand, and you fall silent.
Authority: He has very authoritative hands. I'm useless here.
"But," he says, releasing your hand, "you have not been 'eaten by emptiness.' Don't be so dramatic."
Drama: Dramatic! I haven't even said anything! I protest, sire!
"You may not remember who you are," he says. "But I do. I've seen this happen before, remember? And every time, no matter how disruptive it may be, in the end you're still..."
He hesitates.
Empathy: He's looking for the right word. Something not too "dramatic." He wants to tell you that you are still someone he trusts and values. Someone he likes, and more than likes. Someone he needs in his life.
"Still Harry," he says.
When you lean forward to hug him, he lets you. In your arms, he feels simultaneously familiar and new.
Inland Empire: Here we are. The world again.
**
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Aren't you getting tired of this by now?
You: Tired of what?
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Building your castles in the sand, and watching the tide carry them away. Over and over and over. Aren't you getting too old for this?
You: I don't know. How old am I?
Limbic System: You can't keep track. Everything slides away from you. Years, memories. Wriggling from your grasp like something slimy. No. As if it's you who is slimy. Unable to hold onto anything. All of it gone, slipping right out of your disgusting, mucosal grasp.
You: I don't think I am disgusting, actually. I think whatever's happening to me, it's not because I'm pathetic and unlovable and deserve it.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Listen to that! The wisdom of age! And what good will that do you? It all still ends in oblivion, one way or another.
Limbic System: Repeatedly, in your case.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Repeatedly, and then finally. Why keep trying? Why not just rest?
You: I think I might love it. The world, I mean. Even though I don't remember it.
Limbic System: But does it love you? Hmm? Does it?
You: I feel like parts of it might?
Ancient Reptilian Brain: This is getting us nowhere. And not the kind of nowhere I was hoping for.
You: Give me back my sand. I think I can still see a castle, waiting in the grains.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Maybe. Maybe.
Limbic System: It's too late now, anyway. Hold onto your shovel. Here comes the tide.
You open your eyes. You're in a bed, lying comfortably beneath crisp, white sheets.
Pain Threshold: You feel a little achy, in a familiar sort of way.
Endurance: But otherwise, you feel good.
You look around the room. You don't recognize it, but somehow that doesn't surprise you. It's a pleasant room. Morning sun streams in from a window. There are bookshelves, laden with books. Two chests of drawers, one huge and overflowing to the point where it doesn't even seem able to close all the way, the other smaller and tidier. There are paintings on the walls: vibrant cityscapes and colorful renditions of strange and wonderful creatures.
Conceptualization: Whoever the artist is, you feel as if he's somehow captured the images in your soul.
On one side of the bed is a nightstand. It holds an amusing novelty lamp shaped like a giraffe, a well-thumbed fantasy novel, a couple of motorsports magazines, and a framed photograph of two men. You find their ages hard to estimate. Late fifties? Sixty? They're standing in front of a massive, brightly lit pleasure wheel. They look happy. The big one has a goofy, childlike smile, while the smaller man is smiling mostly with his eyes.
Electrochemistry: It looks good on him.
You sit up and stretch and try to decide whether or not you need to pee and if, perhaps, the door across from you might lead to a bathroom, when the other door opens and a man comes in.
It's the man from the picture. He's wearing a pair of pajama pants and and a thick pair of glasses. His chest is bare. His short, graying hair is adorably mussed.
Esprit de Corps: If an assault were launched on this apartment right now -- if the windows came crashing down and the whole world descended upon you -- this man would hurl himself in death's way to save you. You are sure of this -- but why?
You blink. Who is this man to you?
Inland Empire: He's one of the reasons why you keep coming back.
Back? Back from where?
Inland Empire: It's not the "from" that matters.
"You're up," he says. "Coffee should be nearly ready. I was thinking about cooking some eggs this morning. What do you think?"
Empathy: He doesn't know yet that you have no idea who he is. But he's prepared to hear it. Part of him is always prepared to hear it. Be honest with him.
"I'm sorry," you say. "I don't remember who you are. I really, really wish I did. I bet you make great eggs."
He stops, and goes still. "Oh," he says, quietly. "I see."
You look into his eyes. What do you see?
Empathy: Sadness. A deep, familiar ache of loss. Acceptance. And something else.
Yes?
Empathy: A faint, barely-acknowledged anticipation. Of getting to see you experience everything for the first time, again. Of seeing a familiar world made new through your eyes.
Composure: I'm not at all sure what it is that thought just did to us but... Is it okay if we cry? Just a little?
You guess so?
Composure: Good. Because it seems to be happening.
The man sits down on the bed beside you and takes your hand in his. "Hey," he says. "I know this is difficult. It's always difficult. But it's happened to you before. You'll be all right. I'm here to answer your questions. Okay?"
Esprit de Corps: You like answers to questions.
Electrochemistry: You like him holding your hand.
"Okay," you say.
Composure: You've stopped crying. You actually feel quite calm now.
"All right," he says, letting go of your hand.
Electrochemistry: Awww.
"Your name is Harry Du Bois. You are a retired police detective. Lately, you've been spending your time making art. You've been doing quite well at it."
Conceptualization: The artist who made those paintings! It's you! You knew you and he had compatible souls!
Logic: Can a soul be compatible with itself?
Inland Empire: Yes. With time and practice.
He is continuing. "My name is Kim Kitsuragi. I'm also a retired police detective. These days, I do consulting work for the Revacholian government."
Empathy: Saying those words gives him a well-worn twinge of pride.
"We've known each other for sixteen years," he says. Then he stops, as if he's not certain how to say the next part. Whether he should say it.
Empathy: Whether it's still true.
Whether what's still true?
Perception: Did you notice? The only thing you're wearing right now, besides that rather colorful pair of underpants, is a silver ring on your finger. The only thing he is wearing, besides his not-at-all-colorful pajama pants and his glasses, is an identical ring.
"How long have we been married?" you ask.
He glances down at your ring. He doesn't seem surprised.
Logic: You were a police detective. This is probably precisely the sort of thing you were trained to notice.
"Nearly four years. As soon as it was legal. You were very insistent about wanting it." He touches his own ring fondly.
Empathy: Almost protectively. Or perhaps as if to reassure himself that it's still there.
Inland Empire: Til death do you part. Have you died? Is this your parting?
"I'm not dead," you say.
He looks startled. Almost as if you've read his mind. Then he smiles. Not one of the tiny half-smiles that seem so at home on his face. A big smile. A real one. "No," he says. "No. You're not."
Suggestion: Oh. Oh, that did something to your heart. Something good.
Electrochemistry: It has the potential to do something to other parts of you, too. Just for the record.
"Are there other questions you'd like me to answer for you?" he says. "You seem to have slightly different ones every time."
There are. But you feel as if you already have the answers you really need.
Inland Empire: The form of the castle. The shape of the sand.
"Yeah," you say. "Are you actually any good at making eggs?"
Another smile quirks across his lips. He stands up, and holds his hand out to you. "Come and see," he says.
So you take his hand. And you go and see.