I woke up in a place I didn't recognize.
Everything around me was white. Blinding, silent, empty. There were no walls, no doors, no windows. Just... white.
I looked to my left, then right. Still nothing.
Where am I?
I couldn't remember much. My name, yes. A few things about myself, sure. But the rest felt distant, like a dream I had woken up from too quickly.
But this didn't feel like a dream.
In some dreams, I could tell I was dreaming. There was always that strange, distant feeling, like my body still knew it was lying in bed. But now, I felt present. My hands, my breathing, my heartbeat — all of it felt too real.
Do others feel the same when they dream? Or is it just me?
I kept thinking, trying to make sense of it. Maybe it's a dream, or maybe... maybe I really did end up somewhere else.
I've read too many novels about people waking up in strange worlds. Maybe all that reading finally caught up to me. Maybe I've gone mad.
But then, the world shifted.
The endless white around me vanished. In its place, I found myself in an old room. Wooden floors, stone walls, a faint smell of dust and time.
It looked like something out of the Middle Ages, but peaceful in a way I had always imagined. Still. Quiet. Free from the noise I was used to back on Earth.
I thought I should look outside. Maybe I could confirm where I was.
But then... I felt something strange. Like the body I was in wasn't mine.
It was only when I moved that I noticed it. A slight disconnect. As if I were wearing someone else's skin.
I searched the place for a mirror, anything to see myself. I found what looked like a bathroom — old, wooden, but still functional. The mirror was cracked.
When I saw my reflection, I stopped breathing.
The face staring back at me wasn't familiar. Not at all.
He looked... perfect. In a way that made me uncomfortable. Pale skin, sharp features, red eyes that didn't seem real. I couldn't tell if the red was natural or just blood staining them. His hair — my hair — was black, so black it didn't reflect light. It swallowed it.
And then I saw the blood.
It was everywhere. Running down from the top of my head, soaking my neck, my shoulders. I should have felt pain. I should have noticed it earlier. But I didn't. There was no wound. No cut. Just blood.
Back in the room, everything looked normal. No blood on the bed, no sign of a struggle. Just silence.
Near the bed, I noticed something — a revolver. Old, heavy. The kind you'd see in cowboy movies. It was lying on the floor, maybe a meter from where I had been lying.
Strange. Why would a gun be so far from someone who supposedly shot themselves?
I picked it up. The barrel was cold. No bullet inside.
Could someone have used it long ago and left it there?
Or... was it all staged?
I checked my jacket. In the pocket, I found bullets. Clean, unused.
Then a thought hit me.
What if I had shot someone?
What if I ran before I had the chance to reload?
What if that blood wasn't mine?
The idea scared me. It made sense, and that was the worst part.
I searched the room again, this time with panic. No phone, no map, no papers. Just clothes, dust, and silence.
There was no way to know who I was — or what I had done.
Only questions. No answers.