The face in the mirror is that of a stranger.
Hours ago, my head was pounding and my limbs, sore. Opening slowly, my eyes got used to the sunlight, and I felt a thick substance with a metallic smell run down the side of face. And then my vision became clear after a minute of struggling. I saw green leaves of trees and white clouds, and realized that I was lying down—in a ditch. I touched the thick liquid on my forehead and looked at my fingers. It was dark red. Blood. But who’s blood? It was my blood. I then understood why my head was pounding. The top of it was cut, maybe as I fell into the ditch. As I panicked in fear and confusion, it dawned on me. I didn’t remember who I was. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what happened to me. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious. I didn’t remember anything. Nothing from my childhood or adulthood, and definitely nothing recent. Trying to get up and calm down, I realized that I was lying on something. My hand moved below me for support and fear overtook my body. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look down, because I was scared of what I’d see.

I have to look. I have to do something. I have to find out what happened to me. I have to get out of there.

Then I slowly turned my head and I saw it. She had brown eyes and wore a yellow dress, probably in her mid-20s. And him; he was blonde and had on slacks, a button up, and tie. And I saw him and her and him and him and him and her and her and the child. None of them had anything in common, beside the fact that their own blood covered their bodies; some with stab wounds, some with gunshot wounds, some with slits in their throats, some with severed limbs, and all dead. There were at least 10 bodies—corpses—stacked all over each other, and I was on top of them.

I need to get the hell out of here; out of this ditch.

I looked around in terror trying to find an escape and I saw a rope hanging conveniently over the ledge that I could climb up, so I did.
As I stood there at the top of the ditch, not having the guts to look back down, I scoped the area and I saw a house. It was rather large. It seemed abandoned, but I could tell that it used to be beautiful.

Maybe there is someone here who could help me; who could call the police. Maybe there’s someone here who knows who I am or what happened.

I walked up to the front door and knocked loudly. Nothing. No answers. I knocked again and accidentally broke the door hinges, causing the door to open up. I called out to see if anyone was there. Still nothing. So I walked in. There could’ve be a first aid kit somewhere, to stop the bleeding.

I can’t die now. I won’t allow myself to. Not after whatever the hell I’d been through already.

I looked for the bathroom and on my way there, I saw a woman sitting at a table in the kitchen. Her hair was in a ponytail. She looked like every other average suburban mother. Her back was facing me. To me, it was someone that could’ve helped me. But she seemed a little off. I walked slowly toward her and poked her on the shoulder to get her attention. Nothing. So I made my way to the front of her to talk to her face-to-face. The moment I saw her front side, I fell backwards and scrambled away as quickly as possible. Her eyes; they were gone. They weren’t there, not in their sockets. Dried blood streaks imprinted down her face from where her eyes were supposed to be.

This is fucked up. I can’t believe this is happening to me. What am I going to do?

I ran to the bathroom and puked out whatever I’d eaten before I lost my memory.
Now, here I am. In front of me is a mirror and this is the first time I see myself. The face in the mirror is that of a stranger. I don’t look familiar. There is such a void in me; not knowing who I am in the slightest bit. There are dark circles under my eyes. My nose is tall and my face is skinny. I have a full head of short, dark brown hair. My collarbones are deep and my skin is pale, with an olive undertone. My lips are dried and my eyes are barely blue; grey, even. I open the cupboards to find tons of medication; medication for psychological disorders. The guy who lives here must have been the guy who tried to kill me; the guy who killed those dozens of people. I find the first aid kit and fix myself up.

I have to be cautious now. I have to be quiet. What if he’s still home? What if he still wants me dead?

There’s no car outside, and it looks like this house is in the middle of nowhere. I can’t escape. I have to find a phone, call for help. I step out of the bathroom and look at the end of the hallway. There’s a small coffee table, with a house phone on it. I run there as quickly as possible and pick up the phone to dial 911, but I get disappointed. Heartbroken, even. There’s no dial tone. Someone had cut the phone lines.

Who is this sick bastard? I can’t do this. God, save me. I want to give up. But no. I can’t. And God can’t save me now. I need to get out of here myself. I need to search this house and find any clues as to who I am.

As I start to check every room in the house for clues, I see no pictures, no sentimentally valued items; nothing. But I do find a note. “Get out of here. He’ll come for you. He’ll kill you.” It’s covered in dried blood. I make my way to the last room in the house; the bedroom. As I walk in, I see dozens of wallets in a pile. I open up one of them to find an ID card. Sally Hardy, age 26, brown eyes. She was the woman in the yellow dress that I saw first in the ditch. I then realize that these are the wallets of all the victims, and that would mean that one of these IDs are mine, too. One after another, I would look at an ID and identity which body it belonged to, no matter now disgusting and tragic the sight was. There is only one wallet left in the end. I open it up and there it was. My ID card; my face. My name is Dan Regis. I am 28 years old. Well, now I know who I am. I need to find a way out now. Maybe there’s something outside that’ll help me. I walk out the backdoor and find a small shed. I make my way over and as I open the shed door, it reeks of dead bodies. There was only one small light bulb to brighten up the shed, but I turn it on anyway. I walk in and find bloody tools. I look around and see a huge barrel with a lid on it and open it. Severed legs and arms with their insides spilling out. I close the lid as quickly as I can and gag up what’s left in my stomach.

I need to calm down. I can’t keep panicking like this.


I find a box; a box filled with videos. One of them is marked “Yellow Dress”. Another is marked “Slacks and Tie”. There are about a dozen tapes. This will help me get somewhere, I know it. So I bring the box inside the house and sit in front of the TV. One by one, I watch each videotape. In each tape, a man tortures an innocent person. The man wears a mask and never shows his face. This man is sick. He must tape all of his victims’ deaths for his own pleasure. As I watch, I see the woman in yellow being killed, the man in slacks and a tie, the motherly figure at the dining table. I see the man in the mask cut the phone chords. I see him throw each and every body into the ditch I woke up in. I don’t know if my stomach can take all of these vulgar images. But I have to. I have to know the truth. There is now only one video left. I turn it on and see the man in the mask kill one of his last victims; a child. At the end of the video, after throwing the child into the ditch, the man takes off his mask slowly. By now I’m full of hatred and remorse and anger.

How could he do this to innocent people? How could this man do this to a child? His face; it looks familiar. Wasn’t he on one of the IDs that I looked through?

And then I look into his eyes. They are barely blue; grey, even…
No. That face. It wasn’t one of the faces I saw in the wallets. It was the face I saw as I ran into the bathroom; the face in the mirror. That face was mine.