Lights appeared from somewhere distant, maybe elsewhere. They pierced the black cloak of my placid and safe thoughts.

I couldn't recall what lights were to look like, but I had a vivid image in my mind from somewhere ago. Lights. Street lamps. Blazing one after the next, through the windshield. Bulbs glide across the ground, surrounding my small confines as I peered out. Each pair tethered by steel baskets, as dangerous as the speed at which they moved. Cars, trucks, heavy traffic. I focused on these details for some time, as the pulsing flares neared and brighten, while the minutes tick away. Colors stabbed at my memories, reds and yellow, blues. They illuminated beneath them a cold silver and white box. I had to lean up over the back seat to see it clearly, but the strain was too much and I settled back to watch the colors fill the interior of the cars walls. Through the window I could view the bright intrusion as it gleamed off dark bark, layers and layers of thin pine needles. A thick grove of trees, dark shadows cowered among the visible branches overhead. A forest surrounded the space that I could see. Was it all forest? Where was I?

My shallow breath emphasized the smell of the car. I wanted that to be all that I could smell. Sun bleached upholstery, cooled in the late evening. The air was not uncomfortable, but the space of the backseat was small and easily maintained by my body heat alone. The tattered coat was cold against my skin, and the crisp jeans felt paper thin. Under the coat I was wearing something else, some sort of thin material but it didn't feel like a shirt I would wear. It didn't fit right over my shoulders. The night air soaked right through them.

Old blood. It was a rancid scent and it was all over me, as if I'd been left to marinate in something long forgotten and foul. I winced as my eyes watered, there was no way I could get away from it. I dug my fingers into the crook of my elbows, and felt a rip along my left sleeve that my hand could fit into. It didn't help ward off the scarce chill that crept through the gaping door. I sank down onto my back more and felt the sharp pain in my spine, evidence that I had not moved an inch in hours. It didn't strike me as odd, and I was not disturbed by the lack of events that should have prelude up to this point in time of my person smelling like death, and left in a car out in the woods somewhere. Nor did the sudden lack of recollection that would clue me in to WHO exactly I was.

Take a moment. Think carefully. It hurt to breath, and I was grumbling to clear my throat. I know who I am. It's impossible not to know your own identity, I decided. I just couldn't at this precise moment recall my own thoughts. I had glimpses, brief snaps of a place, of people. Along with a twisting sense of pain, and irrational fear. A sensation I wanted to shrug off, but its lingering touch enticed my curiosity. Everything would come back to me. It would just take some probing.

I shuddered against the breeze that slipped through the open driver side door. Pine, fresh soil, these were vivid, familiar scents to me. As if I was standing out on the forest floor now, and inhaling the crisp aromas for the first time. Each one tattooed in my mind, along with a creeping sense of… foreboding. A danger I couldn't identify, along with despair, and utter terror. Something waiting for me. Mangled thoughts.

I choked back a sob and glanced up, and out the window across from me. A face stared back in at me. Immediately, I stiffened unsure what it was, a person? Or my reflection? After a short panic I realized it was the former, someone was gazing in at me. It looked like a woman. I think it was a woman. I can't clearly decide off the top of my head what a woman would look like. Why was this an issue?

Blues and red danced over her features as she skittered from the window toward the open door, she clutched the dark coat around her arms and her face held a great deal of concern. Did I know her?

"Hey," she whispered. She sounded too cold to be out in just a coat. "Hey. The paramedics are here to take a look at you. Are you awake?"

Paramedics? Was I in some sort of accident? That wouldn't explain a thing. And I began wondering why I was so certain of this. I suffered a concussion, that could be the only explanation. But I wasn't reassured by this conclusion. Why did the idea of paramedics cause my skin to crawl? Doctors. Surgeons. People grabbing me. I shut my eyes and tried to block out the pulsing lights digging through the veins in my eyelids. Reds and gray, blood. So much blood it made me sick. How do I get out? Was there a way out? I've gone too deep.

When next I opened my eyes, the white and silver vehicle was parked across from the window. EMTs and 'Colorado Rescue' etched on the side in bold blacks and gray, along with a bolt or jagged line resembling the exaggerated pulse from an electrical reading off a screen. I was thinking of screens filled with images, MREs and brain scans. Everything to keep him alive. I didn't even glance at the man leaning through the open driver's side door. He said something, and I snapped my eyes to him. He was trying to get my attention with a penlight, but I was still lost in the flashing screens. I was to cut the power, or did someone already cut the power? I couldn't open the doors without power.

The man wore a collared, light blue shirt, his name stitched to the front but in his silhouette I couldn't make it out. He popped out to speak across the window, something about turning a handle, then leaned through the drivers door and adjusted his position on the seats beside me. "Sir? My name is Nelson, I'm part of a medical team called out to assist you. Sir? Can you hear me?"

I could. But I didn't feel like responding. I wasn't sure how to. What was I doing last? It was important, I could feel it nagging like a misplaced car key. Where could I possibly lose something so important? How could I forget my own name?

I blinked against the light invading my eye and focused on the face beyond the blinding beam.

"And who might you be?"

"Upshur," I murmured. I shrank down into my coat a little more and squeezed my eyes shut. "Miles. Upshur."

"Come again?" I heard him lean in closer, his shirt scuffed over the head rest and I could feel his presence against my skin. His finger gently prodded my eye and lowered the bottom lid, to allow that terrible light to clash with my pupil. I watched his dark shape judge my condition. I wanted nothing more than to brush him aside and sink deep into my thoughts, disappear completely until I could decide for myself what happened. Accident. There was an accident, wasn't there? That nagging sense recurred, I had forgotten some vital detail. It was no longer my identity, though that was up for debate to how far my memories dove. But I was… responsible for… I couldn't remember!

I focused out on Nelson, his mediating stare one part cold, one part distant. He saw me but didn't see me. I wanted to describe to him the dangers of paramedics, dehumanizing their victims through years of work. You could forget the person you were dealing with was still human. You can't just cut them up.

Nelson's gaze slid past my eyes briefly before he returned his attention to me. "You're in shock. We're gonna get you out, get you some medical help. Just cooperate. You look like you're hurt, but we'll need to examine you. Just hold tight." Finally, Nelson put the penlight away.

A sharp CRACK came from my left, and I tilt my head over as the back door of the car slid open. Cold air sucked out the familiar barrier I had settled in to. I watched as the other person in matching shirt and dark pants, dragged the door the remainder of the way open. At my right, Nelson gripped my shoulders, I couldn't decide if he was trying to keep me steady or deter any sort of fight I might put up. I didn't budge, just… watched as a third paramedic pulled over a stretcher.

Their shapes melted together, as the third paramedic took my ankles and struggled to straighten me out. He and the one that opened the door eased me onto the soft cushion of the stretcher and moved to fasten straps over my legs and waist. I kept my arms latched over my chest, fingers digging into the holes and rips of my coat. Rubbing the rough material comforted me, and… something about my coat. Everything on my person was crucial to understand what had happened. I needed to go through my pockets. There was a pocket right inside the front.

As the stretcher bounced on the rough asphalt, I glimpsed up to the edges of the light where the face I had viewed earlier stood, with another face. Two girls, both talking in low voices with another paramedic holding a small booklet.

"Are you sure that's everything? Any little detail, we'll need. It could be important," he said, pointing with a pen to the page he was etching on.

I couldn't decide which of them was speaking, as I directed my attention to the large van. I caught the words, "-parked, door open." The voice faded as the open back of the van engulfed me with light. "Just sitting there. We never saw anyone else."

My eyes stung against the unforgiving strobes. They loaded the stretcher in, the wheels folding up into the underside and the locks in the floor snapped in place once the stretcher was in fully. I tried to open my eyes and take in my surroundings, but the light. Why was it so bright? It was as though I had been secluded away for years, in a dark and terrible place. Where had I been? What happened?

"It's not uncommon in your state, to forget what caused your trauma." I strained my eyes in the direction the voice had come. The EMT that identified himself as Nelson, sat on the bench beside my right shoulder. His hair was dark brown and he looked young. I must've spoken out. Didn't care. "We'll try and figure that out," he said. "Our driver, Michael, he's already called a wrecker out to pick up your jeep. There wasn't much damage to it, aside from dings and scrapes. Judging by your gauge, it's more than likely you ran out of gas."

The other two climbed up the steps into the medical bay, the second shutting the door after him. The fresh night air was blocked out, and it was only us surrounded by the medical assemblage. The van smelled of anesthetic and gauze, even the lingering Neosporin was high in abundance. Metal and white cubbies concealed dozens of vials and blankets, as with the general medical apparel. Everything common and essential to the local emergency, an arsenal short of the provisions for that fateful nuclear fallout.

Once settled in they set to work, methodical and detached, sifting through select cabinets. The engine in the van roared to life, the powerful diesel carting us through the thick night.

"Do you feel like talking?" Nelson began, as he pulled up a small rack from the stretchers side and set an IV bag to hang from it. The plastic container swayed with the motion of the van. "Don't strain yourself. What'd you say your name was?"

Miles Upshur. I'm a.

I'm a journalist.

I frowned as the memories came back, the small random snippets. It was muggy, hard to describe. Like visions from a vague dream, but none of it was good. Part of the problem was I knew I didn't want to remember, I didn't want to go back. But why?

The long road, the dull farm report. Static overtaking the radio. Static. I shut my eyes, blocking out the light, the images. Things in the shadows.

"Stay with me now," Nelson said. "I'm starting you on a mild anesthetic, just to keep you calm." A flat tone of concern hit his voice, and I cued in on it. I never liked that tone.

Another voice on my left spoke up. "There's evidence of mass hemorrhaging through his pectoral region. But its long dry. Can't be his."

Though they were unsettled, their motions hadn't slowed. The one on my right took my wrist and I could hear scissors snipping, trimming away my coat sleeve. A sharp pinch caused me to flinch, and I opened my eyes to view as he set medical tape over the needle now inserted in the back of my hand. On the same hand he clipped a small device to my finger, and I knew it was to monitor the pulse rate. The cord ran up to one of the cabinets, where a screen was set.

"Ben, can you get the BPM started?" He turned his gaze to the next EMT, a Josh, it read on his shirt. "See if you can find some form of ID on him." Without a word, Josh started patting down the pockets on my jeans. Honestly, I couldn't recall where I left my wallet. I had cash on me at one point, but no cards. Nothing worthwhile if I lost it.

Nelson continued to cut along the tattered sleeve of my coat, across my shoulder. I hated the sound the scissors made. Clipping, snipping, shredding through the thick fabric. "You need to move your arm."

I said nothing, didn't move. I fixed my eyes on Nelson and glared. I don't know where in me this hostility had manifested. I recognized it as an emotion I wouldn't exhibited under normal circumstances. I didn't feel like cooperating. I didn't want anything to do with them, but to rest. Close my eyes and sleep. It was tempting. The desire to let go, disregard my wellbeing. But I couldn't.

"You need to move your arm," Nelson said, raising his voice.

I had to stay awake. That was crucial.

Ben moved around the stretcher to sit near Nelson, and continued to fiddle with the readout as the line quivered and bounced in rapid succession. "The screens bugged," Ben muttered. He adjusted the knobs, but the desired reading refused to come through clearly. "This road needs repairs, or we need better shocks for the equipment."

"Ben, while you're there," Nelson said. He fastened his free hand on my wrist and raised my arm up. "Hold him still."

"Don't." I took a breath, as I strained to drag my arm from Ben's reinforced grip. I was drawing my arm away and making it difficult for Nelson to make progress with removing my coat. "No."

I couldn't say what I didn't want them to do to me. They were paramedics, they were trying to help me. This I was aware of. But I didn't want… I couldn't accept it. A cold fear coiled over my bones, and surged through my muscle. Their actions harmed me in a way I couldn't understand. I did not want to remember why. I was trying to escape a memory, dark and hidden, scratching at my thoughts. Yet, I couldn't let the sensation go.

My arm with the IV needle snapped over, gripping Josh's wrist before his hand had moved to the camera in my coat pocket. The action nearly tore the needle from the vein, but the burn of pain was lost on me as I locked my eyes with his stunned faced.

"Right, keep him steady. I'm just going to sedate him." Nelson had already turned to go through a metal cabinet, while Ben and Josh grappled with my arms. I choked out a warning, a strangled moan as he directed the full needle into my shoulder.

"Can't sleep," I remembered saying. Something about a doctor, I remembered the doctor. I was shocked by how quick the lights in the van faded once the two men released my limp arms. I concentrated on their eyes, their indifferent gaze as I tried to warn them of the shape above their heads. "No…."

Everything happened fast after the black sleep consumed my thoughts. A huge crushing sound tore into the depths, metal ripped piece by piece followed by intense heat. Flames. I felt the fire briefly, then it was cold and the air clung to my skin. I felt the hard asphalt under my cheek and the palms of my hands. My brow hurt where my head had rested against the sharp pebbles in the road for too long. I pushed myself up, though it was difficult. Little strength remained in my arms, my whole body felt numb and fractured. I scarcely reacted to the scene laid out before me. I should have been horrified. What terrified me was how little I reflected on it.

Black fire crackled across the road, chewing on the twisted chunks of silver and white metal. Red streaks stained the white paint and bubbled beside the friendly yellow glow. I hugged my arms around my chest as I maneuvered to my feet, and stood blearily on the open road surrounded by a forest, lost in the night. Some of the trees along the road smoldered, as the fire struggled to consume the moist foliage and the soggy pine needles thick on the ground. My shoes echoed on the road as I crossed toward what remained of the emergency van. I wasn't sure what I would find, I never reach my destination.

I shot up in bed panting. Gulping down warm air in the small dark room. It feels like I've been standing beside a fire, my sheets are sweltering and my shirt clings to my wet skin. It takes more deep breathes and careful thought to clear my mind of the images, to let go of what I would have seen. What did I see? I'm not sure. As with many of my memories, I try not to linger too long. It's dangerous.

Carefully, I ease myself back onto the warm sheets and lay staring at the ceiling, my eyes settled on the dark outline of the immobile ceiling fan above. I had opened the window on the left side of the room, by a few inches, but the cool air didn't sift enough through the crack. I could open up the window the whole way, but too much and it drove up the heating bill. And people have questioned the open window in the dead of winter, snow crammed in the frame. I try not to draw attention to myself.

I lay tangled in my sheets, unfocused, withdrawn, biding time as it slipped away, and listened to nothing through the distant night. No crickets, no traffic, safe and secluded. Silence, but for my steady heartbeat.

And the buzz in my bones.

I listen for a half hour longer, pining to sleep for a minute or two more. If only to elude responsibilities and the coming dawn and with that, the sun. My sleep was infrequent and disturbed. I had believed that once I escaped the Asylum, left everything that wanted to kill me behind, that the nightmares would be of the horrors I had fled from. The shrieking lunatics hunting through my hallucinations, while I lay curled up in the darkest corner of a room, sobbing, "It's not real. Not anymore. No more." Dreams of myself locked in that place perpetually seeking that escape, and it always just out of grasp. People hooting and shrieking, dragging me by my ankles back to the shadows.

Or that bastard that decided he was a surgeon, cutting people apart. And I'd relive that moment, that one moment in my life—

Subconsciously, I rubbed a thumb over the flaky tissue of my index finger. I don't remember much to the process of mending what remained of my fingers. All of what I did have were some disquieting memories, of what I concluded to was a fevered dream/delirium state. It was either me drinking something viscous and hot, while I butchered the exposed bone, or a vague image of my doppelganger doubled over retching from the process.

I reached over to the nightstand on my right and touched the base of the lamp, activating the light. It was a nifty thing, the touch lamp. I loved the thing. No fiddling for a switch, no struggling in the dark. Touch its metal base, instant light.

I pushed the sheets aside, bunched them up at the foot of my bed and sat while I gave my kinked up thoughts a chance to straighten out. I mulled over the previous day, the job I was working in town for a 'private' source. It wasn't illegal, but it was controversial and risky. And low key. I needed that right now, just enough to get me by. Taking in the details shoveled out the nightmare. It was a nightmare, it never happened. I would forget everything, with the first remedial crisis that popped up.

I was out of sugar.

The kitchen was small and located right across from the bedroom. I didn't mind the room size, as it was easy to keep track of my few essential possessions. I misplaced my crap all the time, none important items, but it was aggravating when I was in my usual hustle to get going with the little to no time I allotted. Staying busy helped, and I often let myself get absorbed with one job over the other before I glanced down and up to see the clock had jumped forward an hour.

I set the coffee pot to brew in the machine and fetched the cup and spoon. The percolator sang its song and spread its comforting aroma, and about then is when I picked up the weightless jar. And frowned. I popped off the ceramic lid and angled the interior to catch the little bit of light from the oven top. Maybe I could barter sugar off a neighbor.

When morning came.

The oven's digital clock read three. Once the coffee finished brewing I poured out a cup and stood at the counter, staring off into the shallow lines of the small living room beyond the counter/bar. Sometimes I did see movement, a flicker of the shadows that was real in my mind. A real enough danger that I would discretely hide myself. Whenever I was alone, I would lower down beside a table or scoot behind the nearest corner and huddle there shaking and distant. My mind lost in one of those long dark halls, running from a shadow. Or another shape as equally dark and massive, with a broken jaw, lips ripped back, raw and bleeding.

I slipped down behind the cabinets and pressed into the old wood, listening for movement. The soft pad-pat of bare feet, or the rustle of chains on cement, sometimes it was a timid voice that held the echo of humanity, but carried the trauma of a rabid dog.

All at once I was back, locked in that place. The nightmares I had escaped somehow invading the real world, the way nightmares were not allowed to. I could hold out until the tremors passed then come out of hiding, as an unstable mess jumping at ever creak. It can't be real. How can it be real?

Then when I did manage sleep, the terrors that found my dreams. Bodies, broken pieces of arms and legs, intestines and spinal cords. Why these images? Why did I see all of this? Terror filled eyes staring into my soul pleading 'why' before I tore away. Red. Red was everywhere.

I awoke every time, panting and quivering, sometimes crying. My pillow wet with sobs. The things I saw. Twice more horrifying than being maimed by a sociopath.

It was all wrong. My realty was too screwed up.

I stood on my knees and set my chin on the counter, and clutched fistfuls of my hair. This wasn't right. Of course I knew I wouldn't be normal once I got out, I knew. I SURRENDERED to the very notion. But… Christ, this. It's demented! I can't live like this.

A sudden thudding jarred me from those thoughts. I stumbled back from the counter, only to realize my legs had fallen asleep while I was crouched. Unable to coordinate my movement, I simply tumbled to my side and lay on the cold linoleum. Who would be up at this hour? My mind began to panic, had someone come for me? Did the police locate my whereabouts?

As I struggled to get the feeling back in my legs I noted the oven clock, now reading nine twenty-nine. Just a neighbor, maybe. Hopefully.

I left the cold coffee mug on the counter and made my graceless way to the bedroom, where my house robe hung from the doors backside. I bundled up and returned to the only entrance into my apartment. That is, unless you want to count the window in the bedroom. It was my backup plan, undesired but the best option in a dead end. I secured the chain across the door, before I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open as far as the chain allowed.

I apologize for any errors regarding the EMTs. I've never ridden in an ambulance, I plan to avoid riding in ambulances. This is just a oneshot, and not a very good one. Redbarrels owns Miles and everything Outlast, I just like to write Outlast fiction in first person because the game is in first person.