Without a name

The pallid sky hung heavily over the city, like a leaden shroud. He stood there, in the moist alley, torn apart by anguish and confusion. Images besieged his mind, overwhelming him with twisted, indistinct fragments of memory. A scalpel, splashes of blood, shifting shadows, and screams. Always screams. The pain was not from the images themselves, but from the impossibility of piecing them together into a coherent story.

He looked at himself in a puddle, searching for a familiar face. But nothing, except the stranger who stared back with equal intensity, the unknown with eyes haunted by mute fear. He had the hands of a killer, hands marked by ruthless violence, clinical coldness. Hands as foreign to him as the face in the puddle. Why couldn't he remember?

He had flashes of laboratories, shiny surgical instruments, naked bodies, and expressionless faces. He saw himself standing in an operating room, the scalpel trembling, his sweat mingling with blood. The others watched him, their faces hidden behind masks, their eyes devoid of all humanity.

Bodies stacked in mass graves, faces twisted in expressions of horror. And amidst all this, him, trying to gather clues, to understand. Ruthless killers, mad scientists, all as terrifying as the next. The terror was not from their actions, but from the reality that he did not know which beast he was.

The darkness tightened around him, devouring all hope of light. The snippets of his memories tormented him, intertwining to form a monstrous tapestry of violence and madness. He wanted to run, but where could he go? He had neither past nor future, only the present moment and the chaos in his head.

He found an old abandoned building, took refuge there. The days and nights blurred into a slow agony. Voices haunted him, spoke to him. Sometimes he could see blurry figures, advancing towards him, like specters risen from his past. They seemed to want to tell him something, but he couldn't understand their words.

Shadows in human form pursued him in his sleep. Faceless faces, screaming mouths, arms reaching out to grab him. He would wake up with a start, his body covered in sweat, his heart pounding. He would stand in the darkness, listening to the heavy silence that surrounded him. Alone, lost, with only death for company.

The flood of memories continued, each new flash bringing its share of new terrors. Mutilated victims, bloody operating rooms, crying children, screaming men. All of it seemed so real, so tangible. Was it his imagination? Or was he really a monster?

He found an old newspaper, with a recent date. He had been missing for three weeks, according to the paper. He was wanted for several murders. His face was there, the man in the puddle. It was him, the murderer. The shock was so intense that he was paralyzed, unable to move, to think. All he felt was a deep, unbearable pain.

He fell to his knees, reality hitting him with ruthless force. He was a monster, a killer, an outcast. His hands, his killer hands, had torn lives away, sown terror. How could he live with that? How could he even exist?

He looked one last time at his reflection in the puddle. The stranger with haunted eyes still stared at him, a mirror of his own monstrosity. He couldn't remember his name, but he knew who he was. A killer. A monster.

In the chill of that sinister night, he took one more step towards the abyss. Him, the monster, the nameless stranger. He made the choice, the only one he could make. He hadn't asked to become what he was, but he could choose how it all ended.

He dropped the newspaper, his fingers tightening around the scalpel he had found. The gleam of the blade reflected the moonlight, casting an eerie glow. He looked up at the sky, closed his eyes. A sigh escaped his lips as he faced his destiny. The glow of the blade faded, the darkness took him.

One more night enveloped the city. One more night, one less monster. Peace, at last.