You wake up. You are in a bed. From your vantage you see a door not far from the foot of the bed. Beside you is a small table, upon which appears to be a book. You do not know who you are, or what you are doing there.
You get out of bed, and move to the door. There doesnt appear to be a handle of any kind. You push your fingers into the small gap between the wall and the door. No good though. You cannot get a purchase. You press an ear to the door. You think you can hear mumbles and bangs, but nothing more.
You suddenly remember the book. Nothing on the cover suggests its contents. You open it up. Inside is writing. You can read the words. Perhaps that is something to be thankful for. Inside the book is text, written in second person:
Your name is Louie. You were born 38 years ago. You have a cat called Ziggy...
Did you write this book, you ask yourself? You do not have any recollection of writing this, and the facts contained within do not prompt any kind of memory. You assume that given your complete lack of memory, that whatever is currently going on, it is probably sensible to conclude that the book is intended for you, and is some form of diary or autobiography, telling you about yourself.
You turn a page and see the word instruction highlighted with many exclamation marks. Under this heading are these words: Commit as much of this information as possible to memory. You will be interrogated on it, and you will suffer if you answer questions incorrectly.
You become concerned. Who is going to interrogate you? In what way will you suffer? You spend some time reading the book and trying to commit the information contained within it to memory. All of a sudden, the door opens. In walks a large man carrying a clip board. You move away from the man and sit upon the bed.
"What is your name?" asks the man.
"Louie", you respond.
"Good" replies the man.
The man continues to ask you questions. And you answer them as best you can. You have only had a short time to read the book, so many of your answers are guesses. You notice that sometimes your response causes the man to frown. You presume these are incorrect and you worry what the punishment will be for those incorrect responses. After some time the man stands up. "Tomorrow you will do better."
The man leaves the room, and you find yourself alone again. Are you Louie, you ask yourself? Did I write the book when my memory was intact? What kind of hospital punishes amnesiacs for not knowing who they are? Other questions race through your mind. Suddenly you notice a twinkling in the wall. You move closer to investigate and realise that there is a hole in the wall, just big enough for you to look through. Peering through the hole in the wall, you see the room next door is some kind of library. Directly across from the hole is a book shelf, with row upon row of books. You move your eye around the scene, trying to discern anything new. You spend some time looking, but there is nothing more to be learnt from the hole.
You sit back on the bed and ponder, and a strange throught enters your head. What if the book on the table was from the room next door? What if all those books next door were different? What if another book had been placed upon the bedside table?
"How am I to know who I really am?" you ask.