Twisted Circles

When someone tells you who you are, do you believe them? The first question the cops asked me was if anything out of the ordinary happened to me lately. When I woke up this morning in the room of a mental institution I couldn’t remember a thing – not my name nor how I got there. Not how I left or how I ended up in that interrogation room. The only thing I knew came from the contents inside my bag. A wallet, a student ID, a key that opened an unknown door, and two notebooks. They tell me my name. It matches my IDs. They tell me my story. I shut my eyes and try to piece it together, but can’t. They tell me why they picked me up in the first place. They thought I was my sister. My brain stays stuck there. I try to rewind and fast-forward, as if my memories were on a videotape, but it’s no use. I can’t recall having a sister. They put me back in the car and drop me off in front of a mansion they call The Manor and I discover what the mysterious key in my backpack opens the front door, and just as quickly wish I’d never unlocked it at all.