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Buzzing.
A low, repetitive frequency.
A pitch, staticky pattern.
Thundering back and forth, pulsing through his spine in waves, drumming against his ears like a relentless metronome.
His mind felt cloudy, thoughts lost in a murky fog that muddled his memories. He couldn't speak, his voice lost beneath the overload of broken code shredding every waver-thin fiber of his being.
His focus was gone, tunnel vision zeroing in on a single thought that forced his body along: to ruin everything in his path.
I don’t want to . Each time the thought flickered in his brain, it lashed back, biting deep and leaving a stinging burn in its wake. The Spectre blocked any attempt to resist, amplifying the corruption until he was left so scatterbrained, he couldn’t think to say no. It burned within him, scorching his insides and leaving his body numb.
Who was he?
A mere shell of his former self, a loving husband to an enigma, the woman who remained lost to him.
His loose-fitting sweater vest, right sleeve threadbare and nearly shredded from the weight of corruption, felt familiar. Its pocket was lined with a thin golden ring, the inside engraved with the delicate initials J.D. —a matching token of love he no longer remembered. Whose ring was it?
Whenever he thought of it, a frown crossed his features. He longed to wear it, but this new body wouldn't allow him to. Yet, it was the fragments of a forgotten past that kept him from discarding it. The sheer idea of a former life outside this purgatory was like an enticing whisper of hope.
He missed an old life.
He yearned for a past he had no memory of.
There had to be better out there. Somewhere.
Past the moonlit lake and the rotting wooden fence. Beyond the towering spruce trees and the endless fallen debris. Through the glass barrier that kept them all ensnared, there had to be sunlight waiting.
He frowned. His head wasn’t in the game. The stalagmites of code he rose from the ground looked duller, lacking the sharp, jagged points they once bore. The familiar tingling in his spine from the corruption-filled traps failed to retain his senses, drawing him forward like a siren's call. What was he doing? His mind was a foggy haze, the burning behind his eyes plagued him more than ever. He was tired.
When the clock finally chimed its anguished toll, he felt the familiar cloud of fog pulling him back to the cabins. As the disorienting sensation faded, his vocal cords didn't feel constricted anymore. The buzzing, the low, repetitive frequency—
It stopped.
He sighed. The floorboards creaked beneath him as he stepped further inside, leaning against his corrupted arm as a long-winded grumble followed. The gentle glow of a lantern bathed the open room in light. The shared cabin was oddly quiet, but the silence was welcome enough it invited him to close his eyes and let his thoughts drift.
It was quiet, brief. He could almost hear the soft brushing of fabric, the echo of warm laughter in the air, comfort nearing his face—
“Hehe, you’ll get it next time, dear.”
He jerked awake, head snapping up and darting left and right, searching desperately for the source of that voice—her voice, the calm that soothed his chaotic thoughts.
Her name. It danced just out of reach.
Brief flashes of her face fluttered through his mind.
Soft golden skin.
Pink hair spun like candy—fuchsia, fluffy. Tied up in a bun.
What was her name?
Her voice. Soft, warm, inviting. Wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. Dripping with honey, it ceased all his worries, filled his chest with warmth, made the world around him disappear.
Who was she?
A long-distant memory, an ethereal vision of a beautiful, loving woman, somehow bound to a man who couldn't truly remember her.
He felt selfish. No, he was selfish, reaching out desperately for someone he didn't know. Craving the love and affection and forgiveness he yearned for, pleading for someone shrouded in the mists of his lost memories. Unknown. Would she even want a man like him?
An anonymous figure, a pretty woman.
A beast of a man, plagued by amnesia.
It was love and the wounds that kept him alive, the desperation that fueled his existence—maybe not his sanity, but the relentless drive to keep going. He longed to hear her voice again. One day, he hoped he would.
A faint giggle wafted lovingly through his ears, fading away like a soft breeze on a spring day. He sniffed, hoping for a trace of her presence. Just one day, one day , for another minute, maybe one last time.
Nobody was there.