The Patient Logs

PATIENT ID: A-093

Name: N/A

Age: Approx. 32

Condition: Temporal Identity Recurrence (TIR)

Date of Admission: Unknown

Log Entry #1:

The patient arrived at 3:41 a.m. He was already seated in the waiting room when the staff arrived—no record of his entry, no security alert. Wearing a hospital gown, barefoot, holding a manila folder with no markings.

He said: “I think I used to work here.”

They put me in a white room. Padded walls. Stainless fixtures. No clock. No reflection.

They told me this was a voluntary intake.

That I had agreed to the Procedure.

That I had signed something.

That forgetting was part of healing.

I don’t remember anything before the clinic. I only remember... fragments. A hallway. A green door. The scent of salt water. Screaming, muffled through a wall.

They showed me a photograph. Me, smiling. Standing in front of the clinic’s logo. Wearing a lab coat.

“You used to be a researcher here,” they said.

“You volunteered for your own protocol.”

Log Entry #2:

Cognitive Dissonance Response: Stable

Dream Activity: Elevated

The patient speaks to the mirrorless wall. He whispers names, though no names have been assigned. He refers to himself in the second person. "You're not real," he said today. “You’re just the newest version.”

When asked to elaborate, he laughed until he cried.

One night, I woke up to find a new scar on my chest.

It wasn’t there before. Still red. Neatly stitched.

There was no explanation. No pain.

When I asked the nurse, she paused for too long before answering:

“That’s not from surgery. That’s from before you came back.”

Back from where?

They showed me videos.

Footage of me — or someone who looked like me — speaking calmly to a panel of researchers.

“We believe memory is just a format,” I said on-screen. “Consciousness can be rewritten like code. But identity? That’s the checksum. That’s what breaks.”

I watched myself explain the process. A therapy that wipes trauma by isolating and archiving consciousness, then “reinstalling” only the healthy parts.

The patient-subjects were volunteers.

Or so I said.

I looked directly at the camera in the final clip.

And smiled.

“See you on the other side.”

Log Entry #3:

Identity Regression Events: Frequent

Anomalies Detected in EEG Mapping

Note: Subject refers to internal memories as "versions." Claims to remember “future loops.”

I began dreaming of rooms I’d never entered.

Rooms filled with beds, each with a body in it.

Each body was me.

Some smiled. Some wept. Some bled from the ears.

All were restrained. All wore name tags with dates that hadn’t happened yet.

In the final bed, I saw a man awake, watching me through the glass.

I couldn’t move.

He mouthed the words:

“You’re the copy.”

I stopped eating. Refused medication.

On day ten, they sedated me anyway.

I woke up in another room. One wall mirrored now. A camera blinking in the corner.

I tore open the vent behind the bed.

Inside was a second manila folder.

Same label: A-093.

Same face. My face.

But older. Emaciated. Eyes wide with recognition.

The last page read:

“Cycle #14:

Memory erasure incomplete. Identity bleed detected.

Subject believes he is the original again.”

“Immediate wipe recommended.”

“Do not let him see the elevator.”

Log Entry #4:

Containment compromised for 6 minutes

Subject accessed Floor B13. Video review pending.

Cognitive integrity collapsing. Subject no longer considers self human.

I found the elevator behind the emergency door.

It went to floors not listed.

I pushed B13.

There were no lights in the hallway. Only numbered doors, all locked.

Except for one.

Room 000.

Inside: a giant tank, full of viscous black fluid.

Floating inside it was me.

Or something like me—hairless, eyes closed, veins crawling under translucent skin.

Dozens of wires led into its skull.

A label on the tank read:

“ROOT MEMORY BACKUP // DO NOT DISTURB // ACTIVE STREAMING”

I pressed my hand to the glass.

The thing inside opened its eyes.

And smiled.

Final Log Entry:

Subject escaped surveillance. Identity unknown. Body recovered in corridor 3D.

Autopsy inconclusive. Consciousness data corrupted.

Initiating next iteration.

They released me. Or so I think.

I woke up in a taxi.

A small scar on my chest. A folder in my lap. No ID. No name.

Just a map.

To a building in the city.

Unmarked. Quiet. Pale glass windows.

And a post-it note that read:

“If you’re reading this, it worked.

Go back. Finish what you started.

You’re the only one left who remembers how.”

But I don’t remember anything.

Except that I’ve seen that building before.

And it’s calling me again.