Peter Hulling gripped the iron crowbar with slick, sweating hands and swung as the last of the giant scorpions launched itself toward his face. A sickening 'crack!' ensued as the weapon made contact with the monstrous creature's hard exoskeleton. It fell, dead, next to its enormous brethren.

Disgusted, Peter shoved it away with his foot and tossed the crowbar next to it. He hated scorpions, but somehow they had found him. The only sign of life in this desolate landscape had managed to find him. How he had managed to get lost in a desert, of all places, astonished him. He couldn't even remember how he had gotten here. Here in the dreaded wasteland of a desert, Peter had found himself having to face every single one of his inner-most fears.

He scanned the hills for any more monstrosities, but found no other sign of any living being. Except one.

Peter's green eyes landed on the man he had been traveling with. In a way, he looked like Peter - the same reddish brown hair now dusty from the gritty sand, and the same sharp features that were just as sunburned as Peter's own. The only difference between the two, was the feeling of insanity that emanated from the man. His light green eyes were heavily contrasted against his red face and were constantly shifting back and forth nervously, as if he was looking for something that he could never find.

Peter was amazed that he himself hadn't gone mad after all this time in the desert. But maybe he had gone mad. Maybe he had gone mad and never noticed because there was nobody sane around him to compare himself to. He did have these moments?moments when he forgot things, felt as though he wanted to break out of his own mind. Sometimes the crackling of the sand beneath his feet was so loud he couldn’t almost couldn’t take it anymore.

He coughed drily, and the man's eyes darted to his own. The man?what was his name? Peter was sure he had told him his name. There was that feeling again. Maybe he was insane...
“Peter, are you okay?” the man asked.

Peter nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I just hate scorpions.”

The man nodded, as if that was the answer he had expected. “Yes, I know. You have already told me.”

Peter frowned. He was pretty sure that he had never told this man his fears. That feeling came again, rushing over him like a wave rushes over beach sand. What was this man's name? Peter felt like asking, but he didn't want to offend him; he was almost positive he had already asked him that same question multiple times.

“How are we ever going to get out of here?” Peter asked him instead.

“Says the lost man to himself,” came the soft response. This time, Peter's confusion and wariness was plain on his face. The man noticed and cleared his throat.

“I don't know how we will get out of here, Peter,” he said. “But I know we will.” Peter nodded, satisfied.


They continued to walk through the desert, the sun blazing down on their heads. Peter felt as though it was pointless, this endless walking. There was no breathing soul in sight, nobody to find them, to aid them.

Lost in his thoughts, Peter wasn't able to catch himself as he tripped over the rock that was jutting out from the ground.

He let out a raspy gasp as he felt his hands connect with the burning rocks and the sharp pain that followed as the skin of his hands ripped open. Hot blood poured out, coloring the sand beneath.

The man reacted calmly, grabbing Peter's armpits and lifting him up. He heard the man mutter,
“Again? He never learns,” as he brought him to his feet. This was the first time Peter had tripped
during their journey—there was no previous experience to learn from.

The dust stung Peter's wounds, making him grit his teeth together in pain. His hands trembled as he lifted them up to his eyes and the blood glistened like liquid rubies in the bright sunlight.

“Hold them above your heart,” said the man, nodding to Peter's hands. He knelt down and grasped the bottom of his pant leg and pulled, ripping a piece of cloth from it with a startlingly loud sound. He set it down and ripped another piece of cloth from the opposite pant leg.

“Come here,” he instructed Peter. Peter obeyed, and the man wrapped the cloth tightly around his bleeding hands. Peter could feel his wounds throbbing under the make-shift bandages, and the white cloth immediately turned dark red.

“We'll have to change them regularly, we can't risk you getting an infection too quickly,” the man said, almost to himself. His bright, nervous eyes darted around the area. “Hopefully we would've made it out before it comes.”

“Are you saying I'm going to get an infection?” Peter asked, swallowing nervously.

“Of course,” the man answered. “It's inevitable. It happens every time.”

Again, the feeling of insanity. “Every time?” The man pretended to not hear him.

“Keep moving.”



Every movie with a desert at least has vultures, Peter thought miserably as he listened to the suffocating silence of the desert. There was absolutely no noise there—even the wind was silent. Men have gone mad from silence, he thought, but then again, I'm already there.

Suddenly, his companion elbowed him.

“Peter look!” Peter was surprised to hear genuine surprise in his voice.
Peter looked up to see something he least expected: a broken down, wooden shack. But to him, it signified something he desperately craved: life.

Snapping out of his astonishment, Peter saw that the man was already bounding towards it, halfway sinking in the hot sand. Peter followed, reaching the shack in a matter of seconds.

The man had pushed the flimsy wooden door open, and Peter saw that he was inside the kitchen, standing in the middle of the room, grinning wildly, the sunlight from the grimy window reflected off his bright eyes, giving them a sheen. His breathing was shallow and fast.

“Different,” he muttered, his words drenched in insanity. “It's different. This time is different.”

Peter stopped in the door, sensing danger. The man's eyes were fixated on Peter's, desperately trying to make him understand what the man knew.

“Don't you get it?” he muttered, his voice high pitched. “It's different!”

“No,” Peter said in a calming voice. “I'm sorry, I don't get it.”

Something in the man's expression changed. “Maybe they'll come soon,” he said, mostly to himself. “Come in, Peter.”

Peter did so cautiously, sitting at the dusty table in the center of the room. “Who's coming?” he asked.

“Says the lost man to himself,” the man muttered. Peter began to tremble, partly from exhaustion, partly from fear. His companion had been saying that ever since they had gotten lost. Wait?how had they gotten here?

Peter braced himself for the oncoming wave of madness that always followed the loss of a memory. It never came.

He could hear the man's breathing in the silent room. “Peter, make them come,” he said.
“Make who come?” Peter said, slightly more forcefully this time. The man detected the change in tone and turned his piercing eyes on him.

“Make them come,” the man said.

“Make more sense,” said Peter.

A maniacal giggle escaped the man. “Says the crazy man to himself.”

Peter could feel his heart thumping wildly against his chest. Peter stood up and backed away from the man, pressing his back against the sink. “Who are you?”

The man's eyes lost their sheen as he stepped out of the light. Peter finally got a good look at the man, and saw that he looked exactly like himself. No differences at all. How hadn’t he ever noticed before?

“I am you,” the man said, his voice deep. He shook his head. “Let me start from the beginning.”

“Please,” said Peter sarcastically.

“Do you remember how we got lost, Peter?”

Peter strained his memory, and felt the first wave of insanity flood his body and his senses. Peter doubled over, clutching at his head, shrieking at the blinding white pain. “No!” Peter screamed.

“Does this place seem like the real world?”

Through the pain and haziness, Peter thought back to the desert, how it was completely sign and void of all life. The second wave of insane pain struck him, leaving him short of breath. Barely able to talk, Peter let out a small gasp.
“No.”

“Do you recognize me?”

Peter grabbed the edge of the sink and hoisted himself up painfully. “No,” was his answer.

The man's eyes darkened. “Do you know what I meant when I said that I am you, Peter?”
“No.”

“I am your subconscious.”

Peter's eyes met the man's. “What?”

“This place isn't real. It never was. Peter, listen to me carefully,” the man edged closer. “You are in a coma.”

Peter swayed on his feet.

“You were in a motorcycle crash, and you are now in a coma.”

Peter had no time to catch his breath before the worst of the waves sent him sprawling onto the ground. He could hear his heart stomping on his stomach and his head was being cracked open and drenched in acid. His eyesight swam wildly and he couldn't breathe. Though his muscles spasmed erratically, Peter reached up and touched the back of his head to make sure his brain wasn't leaking out.

The man leaned down and whispered in Peter's ear. “This isn't real. Remember your friends, remember your family. Bring them here and let them lead you out. It’s the only way to escape.”

Through his ocean of pain, Peter heard familiar voices, but he couldn't put faces with them. Another seizure of pain. He shrieked and writhed on the ground.

But suddenly, the voices stopped, and the pain stopped. Peter regained his breath and stood up shakily. And looked into the man's furious and insane eyes.

“No,” he whispered in pure anger. “Eighty-six times only to fail again.”

Peter felt fear well up in him.

“Eighty-seven failures!” the man yelled. “I've been through this situation eighty-seven times! Why do you think I'm crazy? Why do you think you're crazy?”

As the man leapt forward, Peter opened a drawer next to him and grabbed the hilt of butcher knife.

And as the man closed the distance between them, Peter plunged the knife in the man's stomach as far as it would go and let go.

He staggered back, a shocked and pained expression on his face. He grabbed the handle of the knife and slowly pulled the knife out. The shining metal of the knife was drenched in blood. Blood poured out of the man's wound, reddening his white shirt. The knife clattered to the ground.

“What have you done?” He rasped. “What have you done?”

Stunned, Peter could say nothing.

The man coughed, spewing blood on the ground. He clutched at the gaping hole in his stomach, as if trying to keep the blood inside.

“I was your only hope, you realize,” the man said, his lips blood-red. “I've taken you so far down into your own mind that I was your only hope of escape.” He smiled savagely, but it didn't reach his eyes. His eyes depicted what Peter had mistaken all along for insanity: desperation.

Peter's subconscious coughed harshly and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. His breathing became ragged and when he took his hands off his wound, they were slick with blood.

“I?I'm sorry,” Peter managed through tears of fear and realization. He reached down and grabbed his pant leg, as the man had done for him when he had cut his hands.

The man's eyes, though growing dull as the life left him, burned into Peter's soul.

“Said the dead man to himself,” was the soft reply.

Peter screamed as everything went dark?forever.