Estimated reading time — 2 minutes
I’ve always been a creature of habit, and few observations ever elude my mind. That’s why I can recall any event down to the smallest insignificant detail, but recently my memories haven’t matched up with reality.
On any given weekday, I’ll return from work. My keys will be in my left inner coat pocket. I’ll open the door, retrieve the mail from the assortment of mailboxes on the left side of the entrance. My apartment number is seven, just like the mailbox.
Following this, I’ll travel up the stairs to the first floor, eleven steps; I always start with my left and end with my left. At least I thought so, because a few days ago I tripped. Not because I’m clumsy, but because on that day, I ended the staircase with my right foot.
Of course, I doubted myself, but it was enough to recheck the amount of steps in the staircase, and sure enough, one was missing. At this point I could’ve talked to my neighbours, but they weren’t the detail oriented kind, so I let it slide.
It was a minor change, one I quickly adapted to. At least until I lost my wristwatch. The prior night I put it on my nightstand, and the following morning it was simply gone. It wasn’t impossible that I misplaced it, but I had a firm memory of placing it on the nightstand.
Everything escalated today. I woke up, took a shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, cut my nails on all nine fingers…
Nine fingers, one of them had disappeared, with no trace, just healthy skin covering the barren knuckle.
Not knowing who to call, I turned to my mother. My voice trembled as I explained what had happened. She went quiet for a few seconds, before responding with worry in her words. She told me I was born with only nine fingers.
I hung up. It was dark. I sat down trying to remember, had I simply forgotten? Was there something wrong with my mind? Only after minutes did I realise I was sitting in the dark, but it was daytime. My apartment didn’t have any windows anymore.
Panic set in, this wasn’t in my head, they don’t even make windowless apartments. I tried to escape, but there was no door to flee through. I was trapped in a nicely decorated brick box that was my apartment.
I called the police, they claimed my address didn’t exist.
After they hung up, I would’ve called someone else, if my telephone wasn’t already gone.
My computer is all that exists, and I am trying to write this story with the stumps that were once my hands. Only one middle finger left; a perfect “fuck you,” to myself.
I’ll have to post while my computer still exists, but think about this:
Have you lost anything recently, such as your favourite mug, maybe a blue pen? Something that just disappeared without a trace. That’s how it started for me too.
Credit: Scott Saxon