I’m standing at a window. It’s overcast, threatening to rain.

I turn to look at the room I’m in. I’ve seen my older brother Jase’s room at college: it looked more liveable than this place. There’s a bed, a desk, a table, a dresser and a couple of chairs, but no bookcase, no books anywhere, no mirror, no closet, no carpet. I don’t recognize any of it.

Where am I? What am I doing here?

I know I shouldn’t, but I look through the dresser. It doesn’t contain much: a few pairs of socks, some underwear and t-shirts, and a couple of pairs of pants. Everything is folded neatly. I like that.

I look through the desk as well. I find a journal at the back of one of the drawers. There’s a note being used as a bookmark, and I read it:

“This journal is for me to keep a record of my life. Eric.”

It’s my handwriting, but I don’t remember writing it. I leaf through the journal. It’s all in my handwriting, but I never wrote any of it.

Is this my room? I live at home. Where’s my family? I’m confused.