The Ninth circle

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My name is Gabriel. There — I have a name. So there’s no need to be afraid. But I wish I could remember… something more. Seven days ago I opened my eyes and stared at the kitchen floorboards stretching out before me — worn old floorboards that were stained with someone else’s blood. And when I tried to lift my head, I found that my face was glued to the floor where the blood had dried there, sticking to my skin.

I’m only writing this down now because I — ah — don’t want to forget it all again. If a man doesn’t know who he is, he might cease to be a person altogether. I mean, he might just sort of… fade.. right out of existence. So I’m making a record here in this journal. It’s the sensible thing to do. I’m being rational; you see that I am being calm about this. I am not afraid. What good would fear be?

When I at last managed to get to my feet, the room tilted and the air went thin. I staggered, almost fell back down again. My tongue felt like sandpaper in my mouth, my lips were dry and cracked and my head was throbbing. I stumbled from the kitchen, half in a daze, wandering from room to room trying to get my bearings.

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