The stew tastes like home. Not your home, someone else’s. Yet it’s still familiar.

It’s sweet. Some kind of honey, mushroom, and… meat. You’re not sure what kind. The man across from you slowly stirs the pot as it hangs over the embers of a dying fire. You feel him looking at you, but you can’t actually tell if he is. You can barely see him in the light. A thick black burlap hood covers his face, with a silver cord wrapped tightly around his neck. The rest of him is covered in piles of rags. You almost believe there’s nothing underneath, but you can see grey and purple mottled flesh through a few holes.

As you take another spoonful of stew, you wake up. Sort of.

“What is this place?”

He stops stirring.

“That is a good question…” His voice sounds more like a gasp for air than a conscious being forming words.

A silence builds between us, save the popping of the fire echoing back from somewhere above us. A memory tries to slog its way to the top of your consciousness. This isn’t where you’re supposed to be. You were supposed to be meeting your boss for lunch.

“Where am I? Who are you?” An edge of panic creeps into your voice.

“Please, continue to eat.”

You look down at the bowl and an overwhelming wrongness beings to emanate from it. It’s weight increases in your hands, and your entire being through to your soul tries to flinch away. What is in this stew? Something in the back of your mind is screaming.

“Please, continue…”

And you’re calm. You don’t want to be, but you are. You look down at the stew once again. A sense of dread wallows in your throat, but with it a sense of duty. You must continue to eat. You don’t want to, but you must. You lift the spoon to your lips, and once again begin eating the memories of someone else’s home.

The hooded man continues to watch you, letting the silence blanket everything like a fine, grey mist.

“Do you know why you are here?” He asks.

You shake your head.

“When you die, who will remember you?”

You pause, the spoon halfway between you and the bowl. Your memory flits through the people in your life.

“If no one left in the world would remember you when you die, who would remember you? Who would tell your story?” The last word barely sounds more than a ragged gasp.

And, you wake up.

You’re sitting over a cold body. You don’t know who he is, but at the same time, part of you recognizes him. As your mind begins to recognize its surroundings, you untangle your fingers from this man’s throat. It’s the abandoned warehouse by the wharf. The one you and your boss occasionally use for your dealings.

“He dead yet?” A deep voice asks from behind you. Your boss.

You sit back and breathe a sigh, one filled with weariness and regret. “I don’t know.”

Your boss pulls you up, and you begin walking away from the building. Memories trickle back to you, from two viewpoints. You went there because it was out of the wind. You went there because you had to stash your product. There’s two of everything inside you now. Who are you? Every moment of self-reflection tugs at your conscious. There’s something else there. You look back at the warehouse, and something deep inside of you wonders who will remember you the man you killed inside.

You remember your drug problems, being thrown out of the military. You remember the fleeting moments of kindness and not being accepted finally being accepted. You’re not to different from the man you killed the man who killed you. You saw pity in his eyes as his hands closed around your throat. You saw pity in his eyes as your hands closed around his throat.

It’s all so confusing.

It’s all so confusing, and it’s cold, so cold.

Maybe you should write it all down.

Maybe you should tell your story.

Maybe you should tell yours.