She couldn't remember her name. She didn't want to remember her name. That name didn't belong to her anyone, anyway, she supposed. It belonged to someone else now. Someone she could only vaguely remember, hidden deep in her memories, mixed with half formed dreams and images. Trying to pull on one of those spider-silk threads of memory only resulted in a stabbing, screaming sensation which overwhelmed her body and made her heartbeat throb throughout her entire frame with an unpleasant, hot pressure.

She vaguely remembers being a person. She can recall the gripping terror she'd hidden behind a stoic, determined face, but she couldn't remember what existed outside of this void. How long ago had that been? A day? A year? Time didn't seem to be a constant here. Everything that ever was or would be could not permeate this place. The banal nature of the passage of time seemed to be of no consequence here . Seas and mountains could rise and fall; empires of men could ascend to power and crumble to dust within the timespan of one moment. One thought. This place was the only real existence.

The wallpaper had been torn away ages ago, in deep, repetitive grooves, worn down until exposed material of the wall had been worn smooth by her raking fingertips. She never put much pressure when she scratched away at it. She just sat on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest and rocked her body forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back. She would extend one hand; cradling it lightly and against the wall and would use her body's momentum to drag her fingernails lightly across the surface of the wall. Scratching lightly. At first she supposed it must have soothed her in some way. Back when she was a human being. Now the thought of stopping punches a burning liquid heat down her spine and swirling in her stomach, making her hand twitch and her heartbeat pound in her ears.

She can see her fingertips begin to disintegrate. Her fingernails, which had been tastefully manicured, had either worn away from the rubbing, or been partially ripped off, splitting and catching on the splinters of wood now exposed in the wall. Parts of her fingers are freshly bleeding, feeling raw and painful, while others are peeled or calloused, where past surface wounds had been formed and begin to heal. She is vaguely aware that it is painful. She tells herself she should stop, but every time that thought forms, the panic wells up again, deep in her stomach.

On the edges of her consciousness, she is aware of a constant tinny sound. A melody that plays on a child's music box, never seeming to need to be wound up. It would just keep playing that same sad song. She would never be able to recall what that song was. It was the only sound that had ever really been. All her memories of birdsong, or laughter or language had been a pantomime of sound. A false approximation of existence. This hollow, high melody is the only sound which she has ever heard.

She has no coherent thoughts about the music box. No memories were to tie to it, just crushing loneliness and fear. Fleeting glimpses of faces, unrecognizable and yet etched in her mind, in her very bones. She could never recall these faces afterwards. Never recover the memories that she could feel just outside of her grasp whenever she saw them.

Sometimes she has visitors. Sometimes she can understand the words they are saying to her. Their meaning briefly touching her conscious thoughts before they slid off her mind and dissipated into nothingness. On occasion there would be a oppressive external force, crushing her mind and shaking the very walls surrounding her. Filling her ears with the screams of frightened girls, who fade into the dark shadows, as though dragged by an invisible force.

She had long sense stopped to register that the guttural, repetitive sound underlying the haunting music box melody was coming deep from her throat. It used to be a word. She used to know what it meant, what it was for. Now it is just a cycling string of sounds, not making any discernable sense to her. She wasn't sure what the word sounded like on its own anymore, it would just keep cycling, in beat with her rocking.

"Nonononononononononononononononono." She would whisper it, as light as her fingers against the wall, repeating it under her breath in a fluid way.

This was all that had ever been or ever would be. This place. This floor, this peeling wall. Sometimes she would feel impulses and emotions from somewhere in her mind. Pleading, anxious sensations that nagged and caught on her fraying consciousness. She was supposed to do something, she thought vaguely. There was a mission. A case. The persistent pressure coming from her very soul, aching and begging her to stop.

These thoughts usually faded quickly. They would be stamped down by the omnipresent force of This Place.

She began to notice a slight change. The melody had not stopped, her fingers continued to rake and her hoarse voice continued its chant. These things had not changed. It was something else. Something new. It was repetitive as well, like so much of her existence here. It shook the foundation of the house. Rattling the windows and the oddly plastic furnishings.

It was a banging, she soon realized. Different than anything she had heard here before. There was a commanding voice accompanying the bangs, words shouted in sharp staccato, their meaning not taking root. The banging grew in sharp crescendos, threatening the very structure of the house.

She screamed then. The only time her actions had changed as far as her memory stretched backwards. She clawed at her face now, trying to cover her ears from the noise, grabbing harshly at her scalp and dragging her bleeding fingertips over her face and scalp, leaving long, bloody streaks down her face. Whoever was at the door was going to break it down, and she screamed for them to stop, to leave.

The banging only increased at her screams, the voices raising in pitch, repeating a string of syllables that she could not understand. They had to stop. They were about to destroy everything. Her constant stream of "NO!" had risen in volume until it made her own ears ring, or perhaps that was the blood pumping through her, buzzing in her ears, she wasn't sure.

Again the pounding increased. She thought that the walls around her were going to crumble away, exposing her to a new threat. Destroying her only reality. Again she screamed. Begged, yelled hateful thoughts at whoever it was, hoping they would go away, louder and louder until suddenly it stopped.

The door swung open on its hinges, as if being opened by an invisible hand. She covered her eyes against the sudden light, briefly seeing a silhouette surrounded by misting fog, seeping into the house around the tall frame. She paused, as if frozen in time. Too afraid to move, or look away and yet, light recognition tingled in her brain.

The face. The man's face was one she had seen before. A lifetime ago, as well as in her waking dreams, only this time he was frantic and wild eyed, not like the gentle, teasing, inquisitive face she remembered. If remembered was the right word for it.

He was standing still in the doorway. Frozen. All of the strength and fight he used to break down the door seemed to dissolve, hardening him into a statue.

"My God." The new voice whispered. "Abbie."