 You're exhausted, and it's the worst kind of exhaustion, too. That paradoxical fatigue of sleeping too long, your tense and sore from immobility. Hell, you can barely blink. Each eyelash weighs a solid pound, and you launch the first strike in this morning's battle to stay awake, reaching up to rub the film out of your eyes, but your arm doesn't move. It's war, then. You try to, again and again, fighting the urge to fall back to sleep after a few bleary seconds, you recognize that this isn't typical early morning sluggishness. I mean, you want to look down, see if your arm is pinned or restrained in some way, but your head can't move either. You're not numb, though. You can feel the pillow pressing into your cheek in the fresh-grown beard bristle, grinding against the fabric as your body slumped down through the night. There's a blanket draped over you, covering shoulder to calf. You can feel the sliver of drool hanging off the corner of your mouth, down your chin, wet and cold, below your dry, open lips, but your mouth won't move. Another panic sets in. The adrenaline crackles through your skin, delayed, hitting you piece by piece. Your heart strains when it wants to hammer. You want to hyperventilate, but all you can get is shallow breath. You feel like every sinew of your body has its own personal ball and chain. It's like trying to outswim a shark in an ocean of molasses. It's a nightmare, and it's hell. It's ten minutes before that muted hysteria fades and gives way to a more subtle, hollowing fear. Who are you? Where are you? What's your name? And can you remember anything at all? You expect another panic attack, but it doesn't come. Memory loss isn't haphaz-frightening as the paralysis. After all, there's a queer sense of excitement and the right kind of unknown. There's no good answer to why can't I move, but coupled with amnesia, it becomes a mystery, a mystery. Suddenly you're awake, wide awake. God, it's like an espresso shot right to the pleasure center of your brain. You can practically feel your synapses delightfully gear-shift out of animal panic straight into a deep, logical focus. You still have no clue who you are, but you apparently really like puzzles. And that's something. Okay, use what you have. You might not be able to move, but you can see and feel, and yeah, you can smell. You inhale deeply, painfully, as if the blanket was made out of lead, but your synapses widen. Ocean air. It rushes through you like a crisp, cool breeze, clearing away the fog of sleep. A few labored blinks and your vision clears. The atmosphere grows louder and louder until you can hear the rushing waves are only three feet away. You're in a cottage or a beach house? Small villa? The furniture, Moroccan-inspired, looks recently cleaned and set. There's no dust or dirt. Waxed hardwood floors and the walls are freshly painted. The French floor-length windows are spotless, opening out over a terrace framed in endless, moonlit ocean. You're stuck in an Ikea summer catalog, it seems. You're on a couch, judging from the corner of an armrest you can see above you. Speaking of arms, yours is folded under the pillow that supports your head and the other is dangling down towards the floor. Your fingers are thin. Wrinkled. You're old. You don't feel old. You feel damn good, all things considered. And that makes sense. If the lavish surroundings are any clue, you're that kind of well-maintained elderly type that only great wealth can provide. Directly across from the soap is a wide, expensive-looking television. It's hooked up to a VHS... Wait, a VHS player? That's a little outmoded. Maybe you're the nostalgic type. Besides the television is a full-length mirror conveniently, or perhaps deliberately positioned, so you have a clear view of your own upper body. You wish you'd noticed it sooner. You take a good look at yourself. Late 50s, early 60s, peppery white hair, short beard, dark eyes, heavy brow, narrow, intimidating features, unfriendly, really, not the kind of guy you'd ask for directions, and that doesn't bother you as much as you think it should. You spend the next five minutes dissecting every aspect of your own face before you're struck with a burst of light, and you'd have jumped if you could. But the television turned on. Automated? That, or there's someone incredibly quiet standing behind the couch with a remote. That's not much of an appealing thought. The VCR flickers on next, and the once pale blue screen is now filled with noisy static. A click, a beep, a video image flickers into focus, and it's you. Your face on the screen, staring back, your clean shaven, smaller bags under your eyes, and a tight white dress shirt hanging off your shoulders, or no, the fabric looks too heavy, and the breast folds too far over. It's kind of vaguely medical look to it. You're lying on a table. The camera angled down at you. There's a buzzle of movement in the far corners of the shot. Bodies passing in and out of frame, men mumbling. Metal tools picked up and placed down. And he's smiling. Well, no, you're smiling. Hello, Eric, you say. That is the man on the screen says. He can speak while you only just managed to twitch your upper lip. Yes, that's your name. Don't get used to it. They'll be giving you another one soon. It won't feel right, but use it anyway. If they hear you calling yourself Eric, we'll have to do this all over again. And it's still not clear if repeated inoculations cause long term. The UN film stops. When a hand falls on his shoulder, it's the hand of a man much younger than him, and he says something you can't quite hear. What? No, look, I'm trying to make a point. The other you says. Looking towards the hands owner. I've seen enough people to go through the program to know not everything is lost. There's more to a man than just his memories. When he, you, look back at the camera, the smile is gone. And that's why I'm breaking hell, every rule in the book, so that you can see this because I know you, and I know you don't stop. I know since grade school you've been smarter than everyone else around you, and you don't care who knows it. I know you don't give a damn about rules and restrictions because they're made by stupid, cowardly men so they can feel powerful. And I know you hate the idea of just strolling through life, taking the world at face value, assuming A is A or B is B, and things are how they are because we just know, so I also know you've got an incurably shit attitude. It's cost you every meaningful relationship you've ever had. The only people who are helping you with the suicidal breach of protocol are subordinates. They're the select few who have gotten past your accurate personality, or in the very least know you well enough to think this video is necessary. I'm sure as hell not out of fondness. Eric, listen to me. You're not liked, you're not loved, and all you care about is the truth. You've explored science, philosophy, and even the occult just appear behind the curtain. You just had to know the truth about what was really going on in the world. Something is hot-wired into that head of yours to know the truth at any cost. Well, my vexatious friend, you found it, or I should say they found you. There's an organization, and let me tell you, they don't peer behind the curtain. They are the curtain. They're what keep secrets secret. They're the ones who enforce that oh so slight artificial feeling normality that has always bothered you. They built it. They maintain it, and we spent the last three decades helping them. Why? Because you don't want to know the truth. Trust me, just for once in your miserable life let it go. The answer isn't anything you want. You know what's behind the curtain? Nothing good. Things I've seen in the last 30 years. God, I'm counting the seconds where they give me the needle, and then I can finally fucking forget. But I know you, and I know you'll go looking again. It's just who you are. That's what the brass just doesn't understand. No chemical in the world can erase a man's nature. Paralytic should wear off in a few hours. Around the same time you're supposed to wake up. A young woman will show up soon after. She'll claim to be your niece or something, and she'll expect you to be disoriented, nauseous, and very suggestible. Play along. She'll tell you who you are, where you're from, and what you're expected to do for the rest of your life. Act like it's the absolute truth the moment she tells it to you. Smile, but not too much. And ask questions, but not too many. She'll stick close for the next few days, or week at most, and then just yearly check-ins after that. Maybe a phone call here or there, and she has plenty of other uncles to look after. But once in a while, you'll notice something out of place. A man at a cafe laughing too loudly, a woman sitting on the park bench reading the same paragraph in her book over and over. Ignore them. I know. Chances are this little stint off won't stop you. Our first instinct has always been to go looking, and in a few minutes you're going to be set right back to first instinct, but I have to try. You know, for both our sakes. I just... I need you to realize, I just... Hope you hear me when I say we've already done it. We found it, Eric. We found the truth. And you're gonna be happier than I ever was. By not knowing. The screen and the VCR shut off simultaneously. The LED glare leaves a ghostly after-image. There's a soft whirring sound before fine black powder spits out of the tape deck and disappears on the breeze. And the sun begins to rise over the ocean.