Here's some more. Feels like I'm trying to make up for 6 months of not uploading anything.

How a trip to Windmill Hill is like for him every year

He comes onto the stage, slow and deliberate. He is full of his thoughts and he does not care whether anyone is going to listen. When he gets to the center of the stage he turns his heels to face the audience. He keeps his eyes on his feet. After a slight sigh, he starts.
 Let’s face it. We have nothing new to say. We are a copy of a copy of a copy. Your story can be relayed by a man from Nairobi, Norway, and North Korea and it wouldn’t make any difference. Our lives have been repeated over and over. Maybe we could have claimed originality if we were still in the dark ages. But face it. We are out of originality. And forget about that writer that said everyone is unique in their misfortune. Even that is out of originality too. You are either a drug addict or a hooker. Or you killed your mother because you sniffed too much glue. End of story.
Hell, even my life is not original. I was born so I can continue this human race thing. If I wasn’t born in Japan, I would have been born in USA. I could have been anyone. There really is no such thing as originality. End of story.
So imagine my surprise when one fine Saturday morning as I was having my breakfast my friend told me “No. No. No. And No. There is an original story still to be told in this world.”
I nearly slapped him for saying such non-sense. If it hadn’t been him looking so dead serious, I would have thought he was doing his trademark deadpan humor. But he wasn’t.
And then he said to me “Yes. You are right when you say we have nothing new to say. I’m actually 99.99% of the way with you there. But there is a .01% chance that something new is bound to happen. Why would I think that? Because I believe that we are in the middle of a great meddling of ideas. I believe that we are mingling as one and transform ourselves into a new thing. And that new thing has so many faces we can’t even begin to tell where it came from. It’s bound to happen. Trust me.”
He believed in that bowl of nonsense, so much so that one day I just broke down and asked him why the hell he believed in it so much. Because he was just so adamant in his belief.
“Because I saw a milestone.” Was his answer
“I saw with my eyes what a human being can grow up to.” He said to me. “And it’s interesting to say the least. But at the same time, it almost makes you want to say ‘Duh.’ This should have been a thing already. This should have already happened.”
I asked him what the hell he meant by that, and at the end I had to agree with him. It was something new, but at the same time it should have happened already. And it’s painfully obvious to anyone why this should have been a thing already. And that’s why I’m here to tell you what he told me. Because this should just make you want to say of course, why did it take so long?
So, here it starts. I hope you will bear with me.
When winter rolls around and things start to freeze into their places, he starts thinking about going to the Windmill hill.
He used to think that maybe he doesn’t have to go. He’s only doing this because he believes in the goodness of what he’s doing. That because of him some part of this world is becoming a better place. What part of this world is getting better he can’t tell, but when he sees spring come around and sees life breathing back into nature, he can’t help but think that I made this happen. I made a goddess come out of her cave and bring life back to everything.
And other times he thinks that what he does is a complete mistake. Forget about all of this. Go out to Mexico, Bahamas, Jamaica, go to where the sun shine and enjoy a little. Just go out, get some sun tan for god’s sake. Spring will come around whether you like it or not. Remember, people have been dying way before you were born. And the world kept turning despite that. So just forget about this stupid volunteer thing and just have a vacation.
But wait, chimes in a third thought, then what purpose do you serve in this world if you do nothing and Spring comes anyways? You were always dying for an explanation about why you are alive, and this is the thing that you decided would be your lifework. Your reason for not killing yourself. Don’t you remember that day when you were able to console that dead drunk? Or that day when you played with your dead dog until she was satisfied and licked your face that one last time? Yes, the dead will eventually find their ways and will go off to the netherworld so they may give life, but until then it’s a very lonely world out there for them. Everyday they shriek and scream for your attention, and they never get it. They shake you and you think it’s the wind moving you around. They are confused and they need someone’s help. And you can help them.
Besides that, pasta from that Windmill Hill tastes good. Don’t know what’s going on in that land, but wheat grows good on it. So there’s that, right? All the pasta you can eat and you’re doing good things for the dead.
And so his mind sets itself into going to the Windmill Hill.

"Going this year too, huh?" That’s the first thing his stepfather says to him when he calls up.
"Yep. I’m going this year too."
"You know I always told you that it's insane that you are going to the end of the Earth every year."
"I know. But you know, wheat grows real nice in that place."
A pause, then a sigh. He used to be more vocal in his protest about going out to the WIndmill Hill.
“Christ, why do you even bother going there? What, you got a wife in that place?” Then the tone changed to “You know, I think you are insane and need some help. And I don’t mean help with your body but your head. Listen, you are sick in the head.”  
And after ten years of going to Windmill Hill, he has given up all his hope. He now accepts that his stepson maybe a little off centered in the head, but he is still his son after all, and what father abandons his son?
"Just keep yourself warm and eat well, alright?"
"I will. Tell mom I said hi."

And that's how it ends.
Then he calls up his girlfriend and she doesn't take this too well.

“Oh god, you are going there again this year?” She says to him.
“Is there any chance you’d be coming back earlier this time?”
“No. I’m staying there for the whole winter like always. You know, regulation dictates that I stay there for the winter.”
She pauses for a minute like she’s not sure if she can win this conversation.
“Listen, is not going there an option? Maybe we can go somewhere nicer. Me, you, two of us, maybe to Jamaica where it’s nicer and we can drink pina colada from the same glass using that straws that coil into the shape of a heart. And we can go swim and drink and do stupid things together.”
“I’m sorry but I have to go.”
With those simple words she admits that he’s not going to Jamaica.  
“Look, I really think it’s ridiculous, this whole thing about going out to that place for the winter. People go to warm places in winter, okay? They go out to warm places and drink themselves silly in winter. Why are you doing this? Is this some kind self discovery thing?” She says after calming her breath.
“No, I told you it’s a volunteer thing for the good of this world.”
“Have you heard yourself say that? Do you really think that going out to middle of nowhere and harvesting wheat is doing good for humanity? You’d be more convincing if you tell me that you are going out there because you are hunting whales!”
“I’m sorry if I don’t sound convincing, but it’s true.”
“No, you are beyond convincing, you sound crazy! You’re not convincing anyone with it!”
Grinding of teeth, angry exhale of breath, rolling of the eyes. He can see it in his head, she is trying to fathom just why he thinks it’s good for humanity to harvest wheat in the winter.
“Look, trust me when I say this to you. Spring comes around because I go there every winter and harvest wheat. You just have to trust me on it.”
“Oh come on!” She screams. Then in a worn out voice she says  “Not that again. How many times do you have to say that? Spring will come whether we like it or not, okay? It’s the rotation of this planet. It’s a natural thing to happen. You have nothing to do with it. You are just a man, what makes you think you are that special?”
At that a thought in his voice screams out You see! She’s right you know. And it quickly dies down.
“I just know that I make this happen. I just do. I’m sorry I can’t prove it to you but it’s the truth.”
A pause at the other end of line. She is probably biting her nails like she always does when she is nervous. Nasty habit if you ask him what he thinks of it. “She litters the floor with what she bites off. Real disgusting” he would say to you. But it’s the very chewing of these nails that calms her down, so he holds his breath and says nothing.
“Listen. Sorry about yelling. It’s been a long day and my boss at work was just extra annoying today.”
“It’s alright. I understand.”
“Right. Anyways, go out there do what you want I don’t really think I care too much. You are probably BSing me with that wheat business you are probably running a drug ring. Just come back in spring okay?” She says it all in one breath and she and him know that it’s the end of the conversation.
“Don’t worry, I’ll come back.”
She hangs up the phone quietly. She’s probably heaving a giant sigh right now. She’ll maybe have a drink to calm her nerves. He wonders why she is always so in such high tension, like everything around her is tightening its grip and all the air in her lungs are about to escape her. Always acting like she has to keep juggling with everything. He wishes that what he does can help her. Maybe learn something else to help her too, but all he knows to do is bring spring to the world.
I really need to learn how to break it to her gently, he thinks to himself. Maybe I should have sex with her before telling her. Maybe in the fatigue of vigorous sex she’ll just let things slide. I should try that next year. But whatever. It’s getting colder outside and he has to hurry. Already he can hear the shrieking of the dead and if he listens close enough he can hear their pleas.
While on the way to the airport, he sees many things. A Kebab shop, corner store, bus, cab, bikes. People walking to places, people with determination on their faces. People walking holding hands, people walking with a cigarette in their hands. He sees them and a fleeting thought comes to him. What if I was born like everyone else in this world? Not able to hear what the dead scream about and not going to the Windmill Hill every winter.
Simple, a thought whispers to him. Somebody else will be born with your talent and you will live like every faceless crowd in the world. You will have no special responsibility to bear, and you will never be held accountable for anything. You may die of a freak accident one day, but aside from that you will live until you are old and soiling your diaper.
But as all fleeting thought goes, it disappears and he continues his train ride to Heathrow airport in silence.
At the check in counter a lady in white shirt sporting a dark blue jacket greets him.
“Hey there again. Going this year too huh?”
“Every year like clockwork.”
“Yep, like clockwork every year.”
She smiles and hands him a ticket. He smiles and takes the ticket.

The trip to Windmill Hill is simple enough, a flight to the edge of the country, and before he finishes the snacks he bought for himself at the airport, he is dumped off at a check out counter. And when he finishes his snack while changing busses and taking a walk up a hill, a giant windmill greets him. It’s almost comical how obvious this place was named.
As far as he can remember, the scenery of Windmill Hill in the winter has never changed. Grey sky, wind that howls and rips the Earth, and a small patch of golden wheat swaying in the breeze. For all the wind that blows through all winter, wheat somehow always grows strong and healthy, and this year is no exception. Everything inside the windmill is just as he left it. Giant gears stand still like a beast asleep, cold has killed all scent in the mill and frozen everything in its place. But when he releases the brake gears start to creak and dust jumps out and it’s as if he never left at all. And even as he stands around he can hear the howling of those gone from this world. He listens to them for a second and get back to clearing the layer of dust that settle on every piece of furniture.
While he scrubs and mops the floor, while he dust off the shelves and cleans the sink, a fleeting but serious thought passes through him. Why bother being born when this is what it all comes down to? Is what you are doing really that important? Is your life really worth doing that? You are all dead. You are goner a nothing an ex-human. You are not important to anyone. But the dead doesn’t care about that. All they care about is being heard.

Once at Windmill Hill, the sky is always grey. No TV so you are practically cut off from society, and no internet because who bothers extending a phone line to this end of Earth?
So you settle in really quickly.
Once settled, the only thing to do all day is look after the wheat, water it, pick out the bugs, maybe harvest some of it. Strange thing though is this feeling that he gets sometimes that he is harvesting souls. He feels that blood is shooting out of the wheat when it is separated from the Earth with his hand sickle. But he shrugs it off.
Sometimes he tills the land out of boredom. He clears the land of excess weeds, clears it of rubble and slowly (to spend his day away) drives a hoe into the ground. Once the land is ready, he puts in wheat seeds into the soft ground with his hand. Slightly bent over, he pokes the ground in, places the seed and gently covers it with earth. He does this until his body aches and his mind is filled with the screaming of the dead.    
Dragging his body back to the windmill, he gets out of his soiled clothes and takes a bath. As fatigue and the warmth of the bath overwhelms him, he starts to doze off a little, even amidst the screaming. And as his mind nears the unconsciousness of sleep, a voice whispers to him.
It says to him “What happened to my daughter? She was supposed to be born already?”, or it would say to him “I should have told him I love him”, “I should have been there for her”, and the voices go on and on.
At first he jumps a bit, but he gets used to it quick and dozes off again.
Out of the bath and in fresh clothing, clean and reinvigorated he gets to making pasta.

First, pour wheat grains into the mill. Collect the ground flour. When enough is collected, shape the flour into a mound with a well in the middle. Crack eggs over the well, careful not to break the mound. While doing so muttering of the dead will intensify, but pay no mind to them
Carefully mix flour with eggs, slowly add water into the mix. Knead the mix until it’s soft and elastic. The mumbling will be unbearable by now, but keep paying no mind to them and knead the mix. Flatten the mix to your liking, use the humming as a tool to keep up the tempo while rolling and flattening the mix. Cut the thoroughly flattened dough to any shapes desired. Let it rest and boil water.  
Watch the sky as the water comes to a boil. Watch the clouds as the wind carries them around. Watch them change shapes, watch them take shapes. Some look like horses, some look like cats, and some look like humans flailing their arms about trying to catch his attention. He can almost hear their pleas. Look at me, look at me, look at me! But he simply looks on.   
And before he snaps out of whatever trance he is in, water is boiling and he is slowly and carefully drowning the pasta into the boiling water.
As he stirs the pasta around he watches water bubble up and pop at the surface. The dead now whisper to him as bubbles pop at the surface.
“I loved him”, pop, “I want to see him”, pop, “I want to kiss her again”, pop. He watches the bubbles pop and listens to the whispers. And finally coming out of the trance, he strains the boiled noodle into a saucepan and mixes in a can of pasta sauce. He mixes pasta and sauce for maybe a minute and unloads it onto a plate.
After that it’s bring the plate to the dining table, sit down and just eat.   
As he eats, he watches the glass bottles of pasta sauce lining the shelf. All of them without labels, all of them probably handmade. He watches the variety that is on the shelf, and thinks to himself, who prepared those? Really, who comes around here and prepare all those bottles of pasta sauce? Or could those bottles be multiplying? Could they be mating and giving birth to little bottle of pasta sauce, which grows up to be a full bottle of pasta sauce and is then eaten by him? But that’s a crazy thought and he erases that thought out of his head.
And he eats in silence as the world fills with screams. He finishes his pasta in silence, and with almost a dignified air like a government official finished with an important project, he cleans the plate and wipes it dry.  
After that it’s just a matter of spending the hours away until it’s time to sleep. Usually he brings books that he hasn’t bothered to read. Of course none of the words he reads go into his head. All he does is just run his eyes over the words and turn the page, hoping that his brain is picking up on the words. Sometimes he goes outside and watches the night sky, convinced that the clouds are still there flailing about and yelling at him to look at them. The night chill brings the whispers to a more tangible quality. Like you can almost touch them, he thinks to himself. And sometimes when he is out at night he can feel something rubbing up on him, snuggling to his legs, stroking his thighs. “Look at us”, voice tells him, “you can hear us, don’t ignore us”, another voice demands to him. He ignores them and goes back inside.
After taking another hot bath and bundling himself in warm pyjamas, he heads off to bed. Underneath the thick blanket he looks up to the wooden ceiling. He just stares up, not moving a muscle. As he looks on, the patterns on the ceiling start to move. What almost looked like a face is now staring back at him and flapping its lips about like what it says needs to be heard. He looks at the mouthing face, wondering if it would make any sound. But even if it did, the collective mumbling of the dead have drowned it away and it can not do anything but flap its lips.
He watches the face on the wooden ceiling trying to talk to him until he feels his eyelids come down, and amidst the screams that batter his ears he goes into a silent sleep.

In his sleep he talks to people. People that he’s never seen before and can’t figure out for the life of him why he is seeing them. None of them look the same. They come from all over. Blacks, whites, browns, yellows, everyone comes to him to talk about their lives.
“No, really. I’m not angry at him. Remember, I was in my twenties and I was out of the house and all, and you know, I think twenty something is that age group when you can’t really be angry about a thing like my father going away, right? And besides, mom was so calm and she wasn’t talking bad about him, it just seemed like I would be wrong to feel any anger towards him. It’s just that I just wish that I could say to him that I still loved him no matter what happened. That’s the only thing that kills me.” One man says to him. He is sitting to the left of him.
“I don’t want to sound selfish, but I was thinking more about her than my son when she was going into labor. Selfish of me I know but she bled out so much last time that I just didn’t know if she could give birth this time. But she insisted that she give birth. Result? They both died.” A man to the right of him says.
“When I held him in my arms for the first time, he reached for my breast. I saw his tiny, fragile, pudgy fingers reach out to my breast and realized that he needed me. He needed me so he could live. I never felt more joy at that moment than the whole of my life. That moment when a creature said I need you and nothing else, god if I could live that moment again.” A woman sitting opposite of him say to him.
“So I asked him like, you mean you had an affair, right? And he was like no no no, I may never have been home, but I never cheated on her, he said to me. And I was like hey, that’s cool. Whatever you want to say man, she’s gone anyways. And we were like just drinking and not saying shit, right? And we just kind of drifted off and I never saw him again. I suppose I should have stopped him and kicked the shit out of him for walking out on us. Because that’s what he did. I don’t care what anyone says.” A man who is sitting behind him says.
“I should have asked her if she was happy there. Really. She was getting into that weird ass religion shit that I couldn’t understand about. She was praying all the time. She didn’t even care about her health anymore. All day long she prayed and prayed. She wasted her life away praying.” A man sitting somewhere near him says.
“What I regret is that I told my son It was more a sense of duty than maternal feeling. I told him that I felt like I owed it to him to be a fatherly figure. Because face it, I just didn’t think that a child growing up without a father can be anything. He moved out of the house the next day and I never saw him again. Me and my mouth.” A man somewhere nearby says.
“I should have taken more vacations. All those years of taking care of her. Watching her shrivel away, looking like she was sucking herself in until all that’s left was this tiny wrinkly prune. I should have taken a pause and went out somewhere nice. I was by her side until she died. And her last words were ‘Thank you for staying by me stranger. You have a heart of gold’. That old bitch couldn’t even remember her son’s face” A man sitting somewhere somewhat close to him said.
Kids run around him playing with each other. They laugh and scream, they chase each other and sometimes they all come up to him a in giant wave and cover him with their bodies. Some just lay by his feet and go to sleep.
And in the midst of all this, he listens and does not stir. He just listens until all the sounds blend into each other and cover him like a slow rising tide of paint. He sees the sound rise up to his feet, to his knees, to his stomach, chest, up to the top of his head and he can no longer hear anything. He feels them on his skin. Voices bump against him like waves. He feels awashed in the sea of voices. So he gets up and starts to swim. And everyone follows him while they all talk about what they should have done. They all want him to hear it because he is the only one who can hear it.  
They all swim after him saying to him things that they should have said in their lives. He leads them all through the sea of their voices, voices that wished for someone to listen to them and here he is.
He leads them to somewhere. Where, not even he is aware of. And as he swims away, a simple thought comes to him. He questions himself, if I swim out of this dream, who’s going to wake up? But no one is going to answer because he is the only one in this dream. Everyone else swam away to somewhere with him. He’s all alone. How is he going to wake up? Really, who’s going to wake him up?
He looks around, but like said before, no one is around.
So he sits around, looks about him. He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to wake him up. And he hears it coming from the horizon. At first it’s a slow hum, like an electric current shaking the air. Then he hears it coming closer to him. The ground, or whatever he is standing on in this dream shakes and the slow hum gains intensity as it comes closer to him. And soon he is engulfed in the screams of the dead. He is awashed in the current of them. They are screaming into his ear what they wanted to say. Their screams rupture his eardrums and he screams out in pain but he can’t hear anything because the screams of the dead are so loud.  
Without any climax, he wakes up. It’s morning and he is sweating. In his sleep he kicked the blanket over and his skin is frigid. He takes a shower so his limbs can move and pours himself a coffee.

He looks out a window and sees the never ending grey sky. Screams that filled his head is now just a mass of mumbling again. Clouds in the sky are dancing around to get his attention, and the golden wheat is dancing around left and right in the wind. He thinks to himself, another morning is here.  

Another writing. Don't know what to say. I pray you'll enjoy it.

How George Brown Was Saved
A girl of about ten is walking around about the town with a box in her arms. She tells the box many things like “this is my school. I go here to get educated and make friends”, “this is the park I go to on the weekends when I walk chaplin, my dog”, “this is the fashion shop I like to go with my friends”, “this is the spot where I buried all my child stuff so I can dig it up in the future and talk about my life with you”, “this is the restaurant that I like to go to sometimes. in here I order burger with fries and strawberry sundae.”
Sometimes she whispers into the box;”please take all this in. I need you to act like you know all about this.” And she goes on to her favorite comic shop, her favorite bookshop, house of the boy she has a crush on, and finally to her home where her mother waits for her with stern expression.
Her mother asks her if she is finished. The girl says not yet.
“I still need to tell the box about my life. How I was born, how you two met, what I did and all.”
Her mother says that she can do that for her, no, she should do that because she knows best how they the parents met. "I can teach it how we dated, how we created you, what I thought when I held you in my arms for the first time ever."
The girl is convinced and hands the box over to her mother.  
Her mother starts talking to the box:
“You are my husband. We met in this town when we were in our thirties. On our first date you took me to the theater to watch the local drama troupe perform a stage version of The Stepford Wives. We then went to the local pub and we shared a pizza.”
Then she goes on to talk about their marriage. About how the weather was not good on that day, that everyone was worried that it would rain. She talks about how she got pregnant, how she went through the labor, how she held the girl in her arms and promised that she would protect this little girl from all the dangers this world is going to inflict on her. And she knew then that she needed someone by her to protect this little girl. Someone who can stand by her and protect the little girl when the mother falls and can no longer protect her.
She keeps talking, making sure that the information she is passing on is remembered.
At night they have dinner as they talk to the box telling it of their lives.
At bedtime the daughter tells the box that she likes to be kissed on the forehead. The mother tells the box that they, the box and the mother, are thinking about a second child.
Jack does not know about this because it does not concern him. At this point Jack still had his apartment room and his life was intact.

“Hiya Jack. How you been doing?” a voice sounds over him and he looks up. He first sees hands in the embrace of each other. Then he sees a brown knit sweater. Up further and he sees a smile that is trying its best to stay in that shape, edge of it twitching up a bit. Then he sees a mess of curly brown hair.
“Hi Joe. Doing fine, keeping busy as you can see.” Jack replies and goes back to the work at hand.
“Yeah, yeah that’s good, keeping yourself busy that’s good.” Joe says in agreement. He fidgets a bit. “Hey, uh, can we talk a bit?”
Jack looks up. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, I wanted to uh, maybe talk.”
“Joe, I don’t mean to be rude, but I hope you can see that I am a little occupied right now. I hope this talk can wait maybe until later.”
“You told me that the last time I tried to talk to you. I think we really should have a talk.”
“I hope you understand that I am busy.”
“I know. And I want to talk.”
Jack sighs and get up. He brushes at his knees with palms.
“Okay Joe, what would you like to talk about?”
“I want to talk about what you do here.”
“You mean me trying to look for what belonged to me.”
“M, maybe you are thinking that,” Joe stutters lightly, he does that when he is nervous. “b, but look this isn’t healthy.”
“This isn’t healthy? All I’m doing is just looking for what used to belong to me.”
“That’s what you maybe thinking, b,b,but when people look at you people think you are a mental case.”
“Shame, but if that’s what people think, then let them think that.”
“N,n,no, nonononononononononono. Listen, just hear me out. Have you looked at what you look like? You look like a crazy man on his knees rummaging through the rubbles! I’m sorry that your apartment burnt down, and I know it’s still hard to cope with it, but listen you should start moving on.” Joe blurts out like the dam in his head that he was trying to holding back broke down and everything rushed out.
“I look like a crazy? Do you think that too?”
“No. But I think you look like someone who can’t accept what had happened. And it hurts me to see you act like this.”
They fall silent. They stare at each other. Jack can’t tell what Joe is thinking, but as he stare at Joe, a thought goes through his mind. He is one of the lucky people who has been spared of pain of losing anything. He can tell people to don’t obsess over what you lost. Fuck him. He’s very casual and light about this because he doesn’t know the pain of losing.  
So Jack says out “Fine. I’ll stop acting like this.”
“You have to promise me you’ll stop.”
I said I’ll bloody stop you deaf mute pig, Jack thinks and answers
“Fine. I promise.”
“So, yeah, that’s, that’s good. See, now you can move forward. Let past lie and look forward to the future, right?”
I am going to rip your head off, gouge your eyes out and fuck you in your empty eye sockets, Jack thinks, and answers
“Yeah, it’s good. The feeling of looking forward. Well, guess I should be going then.”
Jack turns on his heels and heads back to his apartment.
Joe watches Jack walk away and prays that Jack does see his point and moves on with his life. Jack comes back to his new apartment and sits at a sofa he recently bought. The room is bare. He tilts his head and looks up at the ceiling and stares up at the ceiling until his eyes hurt. Then he closes his eyes and thinks that he is not here. That he is back at his old apartment. That nothing has burnt down. He thinks that until he is sure that he is back in his room. He opens his eyes and finds that he is still in his new empty apartment room. He sighs and closes his eyes again. And opens them, then closes them. He repeats this until the day is over.

On a day like this I am bound to find something good, Jack thinks to himself as he steps out of his new apartment. The thought isn’t founded on anything solid. Rather, it is something that he tells himself every day when he gets up and leaves his apartment.
Once out of the housing, he walks to where his apartment used to stand and rummages through the trash. He tells himself that this morning will be different, that he will find what used to belong to him. And that will make everything better. Yes, once I find anything everything will be okay. Anything, a record he used to listen to, a shred of his favorite clothing, even a burnt copy of his books, anything will do. Under the grey sky he keeps rummaging through. He thinks about what Joe said to him and tries to look at what he is doing now. I look like a beggar going through trash, he thinks to himself. All I want is to get my life back, and I look like a beggar. Fuck me. As jack thinks that he comes upon a note among the rubbles. Its edges are frayed and charred. It is slightly brown from the smoke, and brittle from the heat when it was nearly burnt during the fire.  
The note read as thus:
To whomever reads this, please I’m trapped and I can not get out. I am kidnapped against my will I have a family I want to go home I want to get out I havent stepped outside for god knows how long please help you are my only hope.
At first Jack thinks to himself, a note. And the second thought that follows is, I guess I could use it for a collage.
He folds the paper so he can put it into his pocket, and the paper folds in like a dried parchment, telling Jack that it will rip itself in two if he is not careful. He rummages through the dust and garbage some more in search of his memory. After thirty more minutes he finds a faded photograph of a family huddled around the fireplace. Maybe it was christmas, maybe it was some other celebration. But the photograph does not have him in it. He throws the photograph over his shoulder and goes back to his new apartment.
He hates this part of the day, the going back to his apartment room. That room is only suppose to house him for until he can find a place to move. But now in its sixth month, his search for a new home is starting to look bleak. Whatever the place is, he just seems to find one thing wrong with it that repulses him away. It can be a little spot on the ceiling that looks like jesus christ, it can be a peculiar smell that comes from the kitchen, it can be that one single tile in the bathroom that just seems out of place.
He tries not to be picky. He tells himself that if he can find a pace, he'll fill it up and reclaim his life. But all the places he looked just didn't feel like his old apartment. So he stays in his room and walks back to it though it makes him feel like he is going back to a prison cell.
Once back, he carefully unfolds the letter and puts it in a basket he designated for “old apartment”, things that don’t belong to him but nonetheless belonged to his old apartment. His prayer is that if he finds enough of it he can rebuild his old life. And one day maybe he can find what used to belong to him.
After that he goes out to the local cornershop, buys a sandwich and water, finishes it while looking about his empty bare room and thinks maybe he should buy a potted plant, maybe a flower. As he sits in this room he feels like his life has been disconnected from the world. He feels like everything is moving forward while he can find his footing to move forward.
At evening he goes out to the local cafe and has a clam chowder.
He goes to sleep at eleven pm, and before his mind drifts off, he thinks about whoever that might have written that note. He was probably a crazy person, he thinks and with that he closes his eyes.
But the person who wrote that note was not a crazy person. His name was George Brown, who was held captive in room 4, a room next to Jack’s room 5. He was taken against his will and was held in that room against his will until he was turned into a father of someone.
But Jack does not know that because when he was living in his old apartment he did not care to say hi to his neighbors.

My name is George Brown. This is a diary to keep my head straight. Should every effort fail at least this will remind me of who I am. I can’t keep my mind straight. The mask those crazy people put on me keeps making me see things I’ve never seen before. It makes me see a smiling girl, it makes me see a girl going to school, how she likes to have milk sweetened with honey when she doesn’t feel good. It makes me see a naked woman sleeping next to me, holding hands and pursing her lips towards me. It makes me see the girl and woman together at the park eating a basket lunch.
All these things I don’t know where they come from and I’m afraid that these things are invading my mind. I can’t think straight. No matter how much I try to remember my family, my own family, those images of that girl and that woman keep coming into my head and I’m having a hard time remembering what my family used to look like.

Jack looks up to the sky as he steps out of the apartment entrance and thinks to himself, it’s going to rain. I’m going to kill someone if it rains. He pulls the raincoat hood over his head. The sky is grey, wind is cold, drops of rain hit his forehead, and for two seconds he thinks maybe he should head back to his room and just find a new place to live. Why not buy a TV, he thinks to himself, it’s been sometime since you watched your favorite show. Hey, remember that chinese takeaway you enjoyed for lunch a couple of days ago? That’s still in the fridge, and god it’s going to go bad soon if you don’t eat it. Maybe you can still save it if you have it for lunch, and look at the time, it’s eleven forty-five. Cheat a little and have your lunch now. Come on, the weather is not looking good, let’s go back, we can do this tomorrow when it’s not raining.
“Shut up,” he says to himself, “I’m going to my old apartment to find something. If I go cold from rain, I will take a shower.”
Well then, I’m out of here. I tried to be nice and this is how you act. Catch a cold and cough to your death, and like that his mind shuts down and he goes into autopilot and walks over to his old apartment for his remembrance.
This time he finds an old newspaper article cutout. Also he finds another note. It reads:
to whoever is reading this:
Please help me, I can not tell who I am anymore. This girl, this person who kidnapped me, I am starting to think that she is my daughter. But I already have a daughter her name is Natalie she is my daughter. I can not tell the difference anymore, please help me before I lose it all. Natalie is about to turn fifteen I need to be there for her please help me.
The girl who kidnapped me called herself Alice and she said that I need to be her father but I’m not her father but I can’t tell the difference anymore please help she’s not my daughter but I’m starting to think she may be my daughter.

Jack folds the paper carefully and puts it in his back pocket. Again, he finds nothing. While he searches for remains of his past, he feels the cold grey sky upon him. He feels the weather breathing down his neck and it tells him to stop. Not even a melted remains of his records. On the way back to his room, he keeps thinking to himself everything will be alright once I have my past back. Everything will finally move forward. All it takes is just a piece of my life back, then I will have the courage to move on.
When he comes back to his housing, he takes an inventory of his findings for today. Today's findings:
a postcard,
a charred matchbox
a strand of hair
a note from a stranger begging for help
He sighs and throws everything except the note into the bin. After the inventory, he eats his dinner while watching TV program on his computer with no interest in what the news reporter is saying. After watching TV program until midnight, he takes a bath and brushes his teeth, dresses for the bed, and all through the process he is gripped by a fear that his legs are about to break into tiny fragments under his own weight. He fears that his lungs are about to explode because of the amount of the air he is breathing in, his fingers are about to snap off like dried twigs and his skull is about to cave in like a deflating balloon. In short he fears that his body is a frail sack of flesh and skin that will tear open at the slightest contact. He slips into his bed trying not to stir up anything, and closes his eyes gently so his eyes wouldn’t implode.
Tomorrow, he thinks to himself. I swear, tomorrow will be different.
What Jack does not know is that he will never find anything. But for now Jack is too optimistic to realize that.
Rainy day, can’t go out, stuck inside his room. Jack is staring at a vacuum cleaner. It came from Amazon. He bought it on Amazon over the weekend. It was a compulsive buy that he did not think about the impact of.
As he sits and stare at the vacuum cleaner, he thinks to himself, fuck, I am now going to have to clean this fucking room. I am going to look after this room. I am going to look after a room that I don’t give two shits about. Outside the rain is pouring down like a beggar's piss and it is now getting cold. He shivers a little and turns on the heater. Heat does not travel far and he has to practically cover himself with a blanket while hugging the heater to keep warm. As he feels the heat warm up his body, he remembers that he never had to do this in his old apartment room. He remembers that he had a heater that warmed his room just right. He never felt any cold while he was in his old room. He remembers that his old room had everything. Books that he can never put down, music rack that held all his favorite CDs, VHS and DVD rack that he could spend the rest of his life watching again and again. He shivers and inventories all that he has lost for the umpteenth time. He closes his eyes and thinks he is back in his room. He is genuinely shocked when he opens his eyes and finds he isn’t. He tries not to think about the vacuum cleaner he bought.
It's a cold day, but no rain. Jack goes out to his old apartment. There has to be something, he thinks to himself. Not everything can burn down with it. I must be able to find something. Damp is seeping into his flesh and bones despite his wool shirt and thick sweater. Grey sky above him is crushing down on him. Air breezes through him and freezes him little by little. He feels like everything is stopping him.
The little river that he has to cross to get to his old apartment has increased in volume because of the rain yesterday, and even that seems to tell him that it’s futile, don’t even try. Your past is gone and you aren’t getting anything back.
Then what, he thinks to himself as he walks over to the remains of his apartment, what am I supposed to live my life on? How can a person live his life if not for something he can fondly look back to and tell himself that his life isn’t all that bad? I just need something to remind me of my past, to know that I was born and that I grew.
And as he searches for his past on his knees, he feels underneath him the tide of sewer, that stew of human waste, dead bodies, spent condoms, fetuses, cigarettes. He feels them under him and out of that stew he feels  the souls of those who passed before their prime rise to the surface and walk like formless shadows. They roam the streets slow and aimless. They make no sound, they aimlessly wander in hopes of stumbling upon what they can never have, a future.
He thinks to himself, yes, I have to find my past so I may live on. I owe it not just to myself but to those who couldn’ live. They passed away before they had their chances. I must live for them. So he searches and finds another note.
It reads:    
to whoever is reading this:
please help i can not take this anymore the woman is telling me about how she got pregnant with her daughter through a dream. she is telling me how she saw a little girl crying in her dream and how that girl ran to her and held onto her and she held her in her arms and when she awoke she realized that she is pregnant. please help me im in room 4i need to go home my daughter can not live without me she needs me she needs a father please the voices inside my head are getting stronger i can no longer remember what my daughter looks like please help me i need to go home.

He reads, and thinks to himself funny, room 4 was virtually only a couple doors down, in fact that was the room next door. But I never heard any weird stir. He folds the paper carefully, puts it into his back pocket and keeps searching until the cold and damp grow unbearable and he is forced to retreat back to his room.
When he goes back to his room, he takes a hot bath, then drinks a glass of whiskey mixed in with hot water. Before he goes to sleep he thinks how weird it is that he never saw any weird stir in room4. But then no one cared about who lived and did what, he thinks to himself and goes to sleep.
But Jack does not know that Mr George Brown, who lived in room 6, taken to room 4 against his will, father to Natalie Brown and husband to Nicole Brown, did make noise. It was just his unfortunate luck that he was tied to a bedpost and was gagged.  

My name is George Brown. My father’s name is Nathaniel Brown, and my mother’s name is Ana Brown. I was born in England, I went to The Great St May Elementary school. I am father to Natalie Brown, I am husband to Jessica Brown. I work at Nick’s auto shop as a clerk. I enjoy a pint after my work. I like to eat those little bony fried fish with my pint.
That is my name, not the name this thing keeps telling me. I’ve been trapped in this room for god knows how long. The room is very bare. There is only the necessary in all the rooms. Bed and closet drawers and a mirror. Table and chairs. Cupboard with threes of dishes, cups and cutleries. There’s no TV, there’s no radio. I don’t have any means of knowing what’s going on outside. The window only opens a crack, not even enough to stick my hand out to feel the weather.
I was brought here against my will.
I’d like to believe that I was brought here three days ago. This place doesn’t even have a calendar or a clock. I was walking back from my work to my home, then I blacked out. Next thing I know, my left hand was handcuffed to a bedpost and I had something on my face.
After fighting to free my hand from the handcuffs and almost considering tearing off my hand, a girl came in with a tray of food.
“Hello.” She said to me.
I told her to free me. She said she couldn’t. I told her that if it is money she wanted I couldn’t promise much but I will pay. She said it wasn’t about money. She said it was about having a father. She put down the tray in front of me and asked me to eat. I told her that I need to go back to my family. My wife must be by now worrying herself to death, and my daughter must be crying her eyes out wondering where I am.
The girl looked at me sadly and shook her head no. She then said:
“I’m really sorry, but you are not going back to your home ever again. You are going to be my father from now on.”
I begged her again please, please let me go. My daughter is about to turn fifteen I need to be there for her. Please, I will never tell anyone about your kidnapping. I will keep my silence please let me go.
She again looked at me sadly and shook her head no. She only said “I’m sorry but you have no home but this one now. You are going to be my father.”
And like that she walked out the room while I shouted at her to free me.
Since then I have been imprisoned in this bedroom. The thing that was over my head as it turns out was a mask that is supposedly in remembrance of her father.
“This will teach you about what my father did, and after this is finished you will know what to do.”
And she was right. Since the day I was kidnapped and imprisoned in this room, this mask has been telling me what I am. It tells me that I am K., father to a little girl name Alice and husband to a woman named Rose. I work as an elementary school teacher and that I enjoy a pint on sunday while watching a local football match.
It’s only a miracle of god that I found this pencil and paper. If it hasn’t been for me writing this I would have lost my mind a long time ago.
This mask keeps whispering things to me in my sleep. Its constant telling me of a life that isn’t mine is invading me. I need to get out of this place. I need to go back to my family. I need to get this mask off my face before it completely turns me into something I am not.

Jack is not feeling good today. He’s lying in his bed, blanket over his head and eyes shut. His head throbs, but not so horribly that he should think about going to a pharmacy or a hospital. It’s pain in equivalence of dipping your finger into a cold water being heated gradually to its boiling point. You won’t know how bad it can be before pulling your finger out. He doesn’t feel like going anywhere. He feels like staying in his room and letting the day spend itself. Behind his closed eyes he’s reliving his past life in his bed. He’s remembering what he used to do.
He used to play vinyl records on sunday while watching lazily out the window. He used to read the spine of the books he collected. He used to drink alcohol while watching B grade movies and laughing lightheartedly at it. He used to fold his clothing after wash in light breeze and sunshine.
He remembers everything and the more he remembers the more he tries to not think about where he is. He feels the bare room, ugly carpet, empty shelves and thinks to himself, I can’t settle like this. And over that image he sees Jack preaching him to let go. He keeps telling Jack to just forget about what he used to have. It’s not healthy to obsess over what you lost. Look to your future and forget your past.
His head throbs again in dull pain and he swears softly under his breath.
Eventually he goes off to the cornershop and buys a bottle of whiskey to drive away the headache.
As he sleeps the rain pours in fine mist outside.
Next day he feels a little better so he vacuums the room clean before going to work. He tries not to think about the fact that as he cleans the room looked better. He feels like he can almost appreciate the room for a second. He shakes the thought away and goes out to work.

Before the apartment burnt down and destroying Jack’s mind, Mr George Brown was subjected to having sex with a woman who was claiming to be his wife.
She ran her tongue along his neck, biting him lightly on his earlobes. She ran her hand all over him like she was molding him into a shape of the husband she used to have. Her legs are curled up to his, and she kissed him deeply. They roll around on the bed. Mr Brown wound his arms around the woman who claimed to be his wife and the woman looked on him with a smile. They kiss again and Mr Brown thought to himself what a beautiful woman you are, whoever you are. He held her in his arms and stroked her hair. She looked up and smiled. They pleasured each other while looking at each other in eyes. Mr George Brown felt deep affection toward this strange woman.  
She guided his hands to her breasts and taught him how to play with them.
“Yes, like that, you used to cup them and hold them in you hands.” She said to Mr Brown.
“You used to love to rest your head between my breasts and listen to my heartbeat.” She said to Mr Brown and brought his head to her heart. He listened to her heartbeat and for a second he felt safe. He felt like he was back where he belonged. And in fact he was thinking that this is where he needed to be. All those incessant voice telling him this was his wife, that a strange little girl was his daughter, this apartment room was where his family was, he was beginning to believe that. Then he remembered how his daughter Natalia looked and he snapped back into what he was.
He screamed out let go of me and pushed her away. The woman looked hurt for a moment, but quickly gained back her composure and got out of bed quickly.
Mr Brown screamed after her please let go of me I won’t talk to anyone about this please release me. I swear I won’t talk to anyone. He screamed with as much emotion he could put in. But the woman left the room without even giving him a look.
Mr Brown fought with the shackle that tied him to the steel bedpost but it would not budge. He struggled until cried silently to himself so they couldn’t hear him. He prayed that all the notes of help had gotten into someone’s hands and they are on their way to help him. He had to believe that or he has no choice but to become their father and husband. He scratched at the mask that was over his face but the moment he dug his nails on to the mask he felt the skin underneath it stretch with it. He pulled at the mask skin until he was sure that this skin is becoming his real skin. He screamed. That scream was loud enough for a passerby to look up and see what was the matter.
But this was before Jack’s apartment burnt down, and Jack was living happily back then, so Jack did not know that there was someone trapped next door to him.

I am supposed to be George Brown. I do not know who I am anymore. I have completely lost all concept of time. I no longer know if it is day or night. I do not care if it is day or night. There probably is a search for me, but no one is reaching out to this place, or I would have been found and rescued already.
I do not know if I am George Brown anymore. Some part of the day I spend thinking about what my daughter is doing, and it is Alice that is on my mind. I try to think about Natalie, but she is now a blur. I think about my wife, and I think about Samantha, the woman who feeds me.  She comes into my room and she hands me my tray of food. We talk while I eat.
She tells me how we used to go out on a date, how we used to go out to the museum, how we used to bake bread together on the weekends. She tells me that on our wedding day we kissed every time somebody tinkled on the glass with a fork. She tells me how I cried and cried when Alice was born. I can’t believe how much I’ve forgotten.
Sometimes she comes into my room to make love. She would clean the bed of any food remains and lay on top of me, and kiss me while she took off my clothing. This is how we used to make love she says to me and we would move slowly. I always finish inside her, and she always looks at me dearly and whispers I love you into my left ear.
At night before going to sleep I hear a distant scream of someone telling me this is not who I am, that I am George Brown and that I need to go back to my family. I ignore that voice and go to sleep.
And sometimes I wake up at night and scream please let me go you are driving me insane you are twisting my mind I’m George Brown please I need to go back to my family this mask is making me think I’m someone I’m not. Somebody please take this off oh god this mask is stuck to my skin i cant take it off oh god this is my skin oh god somebody help me please.

Please help. My name is George Brown. I am trapped in a room. I have been taken against my will. You are my only hope. Please help me. If you can read this then where I am trapped is nearby. Please help me, I haven’t seen my family in days. I need to see them. I fear they intend to keep me here forever. They’ve strapped a latex mask on me I need to get out of here please help.
That is the longest memo that Jack had picked up from the ashes of his old apartment, and Jack judges that by the way the memo is not changing its content from what it said before, the writer of the memo must have started losing hope and was growing desparate. Maybe he was throwing these notes around and was running out of things to say. Maybe he thought to himself that he had to come up with something or no one will pay attention to them any more so maybe he paced around the room shouting for help. Then again, all this time Jack did not hear any commotion, maybe the writer of these notes was strapped to something limiting his movement.
As Jack lay around on the bed in his room and thinks about his old apartment, he thinks about how this George Brown spent his days. He was fed, he was shackled (Jack doesn’t really know if he was always shackled but he was shackled), and he had a skin over his skin that was telling him things that drove him insane.
What a nutcase. And this man lived only a couple rooms down from me? God, all the nutcases in this world, and how quiet they all live, Jack thinks to himself.
He thinks about how this George Brown thought a lot about his family and he wondered what it would be like to be cared for. To worry about your family. To want to see them so bad that you would try everything. It must be nice was all he could come up with.
But he can’t imagine that, so he cleans his room with the vacuum cleaner and cleans the newly bought set of dishes. As he cleans them he feels the room turning into something familiar. He shakes his head hard and tries to drive that thought away.
That night, after having his dinner, he dreams of his old apartment. He travels down the corridor to his room and unlocks the door. As he enters his room, he gives a quick look to his right and wonders if he can enter. But that would be breaking and entering, and that is wrong. So he enters his room like he always did back then and plays around until he wakes up. When he wakes up, his first thought is I should have entered and helped that George Brown. And that would have been his rescue, but Jack does not know that.

As with all things in a life altering experience, Mr George Brown was not aware that he was to be abducted that day. He was thinking about going to work, like he always did every morning when he woke up at six thirty and got out of his side of the bed, which is the left. His wife woke up at the same moment to prepare breakfast and wake up their daughter Natalia.
George Brown had his usual breakfast of beans, eggs, sausage and toast. He went to his work, and spent his work talking and joking with his co-workers. At the end he clocked out and headed to his home. On his way back he thought about what his wife Martha would cook for dinner. That was how his life went. He woke up, went to work, came back home, slept. Repeat this process again the next day. That was his life and George Brown was content with it. He watched as his Natalia grew up, she was to start attending junior high come this June. He spent his sunday with his wife watching TV. They held hands while watching TV. They didn’t talk much but they knew they loved each other. He had a respectable life and he was content with it.
But that day, that day when he was on his way home, he got hit on the back of his head. It was quick and he fell to the ground without a word. Over him stood a girl of about ten years old. In her hands she held a tree branch she found nearby. When she confirmed that George Brown was unconscious, she pulled a box out of her backpack and produced a rubber latex mask and put it over his head.
“I’m really sorry.”She said to George Brown.
“But I need a family if I am to grow up with sound mind.”
“Maybe you have a family of your own too. And again, I’m sorry, but that’s your family, not mine. And I need a father.”
After putting the mask completely over his head, the little girl texted her mother, who drove both of them to their apartment and dragged George Brown to their room.
When George Brown was laid out on a bed, the little girl took his hand and put it over her head and made it ran over her hair like his hand was patting a daughter. As all horrible things that happen in this world, when George Brown woke and found himself not in his bedroom, he was horribly confused. When he couldn’t move too much and found his left ankle cuffed to a heavy iron room heater, his mind went blank and yanked at the chain in blind hope that it might break off. After learning that it wouldn’t budge, he finally let out a call for help.
At this point Jack Thompson, who still had his room and was watching a recorded new program, heard that cry for help, but because of the thick wall he thought it was just a TV program playing a little too loud. He merely thought his neighbor could be a little civil and play whatever they are watching at lower volume.
In the security and comfort of his room, Jack didn’t know that it was a cry of a man wanting to be rescued.    

Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Please help me. I am no longer sure of who I am. I’m not sure if I am George Brown or a father to this girl and husband to that woman. I tell myself that I know them, I tell myself that I can remember how I met that woman, I tell myself that I can remember the day this girl was born. But I don’t know them. They are strangers. Yet I keep remembering how I spent going onto picnic to a park nearby the home, how we went to circus and fed the animals peanuts, how we went to local cafe on Saturdays. I can not take this. I can feel myself disintegrating into someone else I never met before. Please help me before I am changed into someone else.
When Jack picks up this note from the wreckage of his former apartment, the only thing he manages to think is wow, this man is desparate. He picks some more through the rubbish, and finds nothing of his former life.
The weather is cold, he feels his breath against his lips. His gloved hands feel numb.
Jack cuts his search short today and makes his way back to his room. He takes a hot bath that at once his boils his blood then tenderises his frozen body from cold porcelain to human flesh. As he let the hot water bring his body back from the dead, he looks up to the ceiling and notices that there is are stains on it. He looks at the thick green mold and thinks to himself, I should buy something for it. And with that, a crushing realization comes to him. My god, this place is growing on me. He looks on the ceiling with impassioned eyes and he tells himself, I could BS myself and tell myself that vacuum cleaner was a joke, but now I am thinking about buying something to clean and maintain this room.   
He closes his eyes and thinks about his old room. He thinks about everything that was in it. He wants to hold on. He can’t let this be the place for him. That old room, that was the place for him. That is where he belongs. But he realizes that some part of him is thinking about maybe buy a portable stereo system so he can listen to some music while taking a bath. Maybe buy a nice bed so he can sleep better. Maybe buy some crockery as well. He shakes that thought away, gets out of the bath and cleans his body.
He buys cheese, ham, onion, lettuce, and a loaf of bread for lunch. At the kitchen area of the room, he nicks his finger with the kitchen knife while cutting loaf of bread into slices. As he sees blood flow out from the tip of his index finger, he is suddenly gripped with the fear of driving the knife right through his palm and twist the blade clockwise so to widen the wound. He imagines a gaping wound on his hand and he has to close his eyes and imagine himself in his old room just lounging around reading news paper while evening time news played in the background.
Please stop, he thinks to himself. This is not healthy. I want my life back, but this thought, these thoughts of harming myself, possibly killing myself. This has to stop.
So he stops thinking and finishes his lunch. At the last bite his teeth contact his lips and draws a little blood. After that it is cataloguing what he finds for today (sleeve of vinyl record, a smiling figurine of jesus christ) , watch new program on his PC (some people died,  a couple somewhere beget a  child, some president somewhere choked on a pretzel), and take another bath to warm his body. After that there is nothing for him to do but sit around watching the ceiling.  
While he watches the ceiling, a thought enters his mind.  
Bite your lips off. Bite the whole damn thing off. Go ahead, do it.
He slowly runs his teeth over his lips, he bites slowly and gently. He quickly withdraws his teeth away from the lips and closes his eyes, breathes in deeply so to drive the thought away. But now the thought is an image. In that image he is biting his lips off, chewing off his tongue and ripping away whatever remnant of lips his teeth couldn't get at.
To drive the thought and the image away he puts both palms of his hands over his eyes and imagines him back in his room. He is imagining his life as it was, he is listening to his favorite music, he is watching his favorite movie, and he is letting his eyes swim over the backs of books he loves to read a couple pages of so he won't finish reading in one go.He imagines all that in his head instead of thinking about biting off his lips.
Come on, just bite it off. Voice insists. You know you want to do it. Why fight the urge? Just feel how soft your lips are. Just think about how good it will feel to bite into them. They are going to be succulent, they are going to taste sweet. Just bite into them.
It makes strange sense to him, and he hides into his room more so he won't have to listen to it.
Bite it off, bite it off, bite it off, the voice continues.
Jack runs his mind deeper into his old room so he won’t have to listen. He walks about his room, goes outside, stands in the hallway and paces around. He paces around on the vomit green carpet, sickening white wall, blinding fluorescent white light.
Still the voice whispers to him. Jack paces around some more and comes in front of room 4. He opens the door and inside the burning room stands a man with a woman and a girl lying about him. In this room Jack smells gas, feels the heat and hears the sound of cracking ceiling beams and notices that the man is holding a kitchen knife in one hand and  a lighter in another. He is horribly burnt, some of his skin is peeling off his face. They look each other in the eyes and Jack realizes that this man, this man has been sending out those notes of help. And if he is here then he didn't make it. And George Brown, or a man that used to be George Brown looks at Jack and feels nothing about his presence in his room. He merely recognizes his presence and keeps standing about.
Jack remembers that this is the face that he saw when the apartment burnt down. Jack walks up to him and pulls off the remaining of the mask that hangs on to George Brown's face. It comes off like peeling skin off of an onion. In one motion the mask is off of his face. George Brown feels around his face with the hand that held the lighter, and quietly says to Jack "thank you." Jack just nods and walks out of the room. Jack says “you are welcome” and tries to take George Brown by the hand and take him to safety. George Brown shakes that hand away and points to a woman and a girl on the floor. Jack picks them and walks out of the room. George Brown follows him out.

On 13th of July, George Brown realized that he could no longer remember his daughter’s face. In fact when he tried to remember who he is, he was mystified by the name George Brown. What is this name, where did it come from, why did it even come to my mind? He felt his head was cluttered with weird things, like how he used to cry to be released. Why do that when this is his home? To add more confusion, he found his leg chained to a bedpost. In fear he called out to his wife Martha. She rushed in at once to the call, and when she heard him say why am I shackled, please if I have done anything wrong let me make it up to you. Martha hugged him in her bosom and said to him, No honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. You just took your time coming back to me. To that Donald Craig hugged his wife Martha back and said, I was always here Martha, there is no way I’d go anywhere without you.
And at that moment, whatever little rational that was left for George Brown died. And it died screaming as it disappeared into forgetfulness.
That day when Donald Craig came back, he called out to his daughter Alice and hugged her like he was away to a very far away place. Alice hugged him back and cried a little. At night Martha and Victor Craig went to sleep in each other’s embrace. She stroked his face and ran her hand through his hair. He cupped his breast and felt her heartbeat.
For the three months after that Donald rebuilt his life. Kissed Martha on the forehead, got out of the left side of bed, woke Alice up, took shower, dressed into his work cloth, ate two slices of wheat toast and drank coffee no sugar. Went to work, came back home, watched TV and went to bed with Martha and talked about maybe going for that second child. It was a difficult life to go back into as he was away from his work and he had to remember what he used to do.
On Sunday of October 10th, at about 09:40, Donald Craig was cooking a meal for his family. He was thinking, it’s only a Sunday, let’s not go too overboard. Something moderate is nice. Pancakes, eggs, sausages, bacon. Tea and sugar will definitely be nice. Let’s play TV on the background.
He was thinking all that when a loose plastic shaker of salt dropped from the spice rack over head and hit him square on his left cheek. After some liberal use of language, he reached up to his cheek, he found something weird about his face. At first he thought it was some kind of a joke, so he reached up again. But it felt the same. When he felt for his cheek the third time, thinking to himself this is a dream, I’m sleepwalking and just making this breakfast in my dream, and felt the same thing on his face, his mind was forced into going blank. He tried looking for a reflective surface to see if what he felt was just a mistake. When he found a black smooth plate he held it up to his face and strained. And it was as he felt it. There was a slight rip on his left cheek and skin showed through, and his left eyelid drooped.
He screamed out, and after that it was like he was seeing a play develop in front of his eyes. Martha came in, and seeing the damage on his face, she clutched her hands at her mouth and gasped. She ran up to him and held him in her arms. She was wordless, she tried to come up with something to say. Then an emotion came welling out of Donald. He gripped firmly the kitchen knife that he was holding in his hand and stabbed Martha. Alice rushed into the kitchen at the pain of scream and found Martha on the floor and her father Victor standing with a kitchen knife in his hand. Giving her no time to react, Donald strode up to Alice and stabbed her. She collapsed to the floor like a doll with its strings cut off. Then he turned the pilot light off and let the room fill with gas. As he heard the hissing of the gas escaping from the oven, he thought to himself who was he after all anyway. It’s obvious I’m not Donald, right? Who am I really? Am I Kirby, am I Josh, am I John? What the hell am I? But all that his mind could answer back was but you are Victor, aren’t you? So he took a sigh, went over to the kitchen drawer, fished out a lighter, and sat on the kitchen chair. He sparked the lighter at about 10:15.

In the apartment that was burning down to ashes, Donald Craig watched the door of the room that kept him hostage for so long open and watched as Jack Thompson came in. Jack Thompson found Donald Craig standing around in a daze while the heat was cooking him well done. Jack came up to him and peeled off whatever remains of mask that was clinging on his face and tried to take George Brown by the hand. But George Brown shook that hand away and pointed toward a woman and a girl lying on the floor. They were bleeding, yes, but not horribly enough to die from it. They were unharmed by the fire, collapsing beams and plaster walls creating a pyramid like structure protection that saved them from the heat. Jack picked them up and walked out of the room. George Brown followed him.
Jack stepped out of the apartment with a woman and a girl in his arms, laid them down once he was away from the collapsing apartment. As he turned to look, he saw the apartment collapse down with thundering screams of wood, bricks and shattering glass. Jack thought to himself, christ, there goes my apartment. He thought about George Brown and wondered if he made out okay.

Couple of months later he saw a man bandaged all over and taking a walk with a woman and a girl. He prayed that was George Brown.