The camcorder was in the crawlspace, covered in dust.
One tape inside, labelled in shaky handwriting: “Help me.”
I pressed play.
A teenager films himself, terrified. “It makes you forget. Every day you find this tape. Every day you watch. You never remember.”
He angles the camera at a wall covered in tally marks. Thousands.
“You’ve watched this 2,847 times. Check your arms.”
I rolled up my sleeves.
Tally marks. Carved into my skin. Healed and fresh.
The boy on screen starts crying. “Today’s the day it takes you completely. I’m sorry.”
He looks exactly like me.
Thirty years younger.
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