Who Cares About The Past?

I don't know enough to care.

Alone, a bachelor, a baker owner. An orphan, as far I know. I don't like to drink. Just looking at a bottle gives me head pains. It doesn't matter what I wear or where I go, it's the same every day. Work, home, repeat. There isn't much to my life but it isn't hard, so I'm content.

Every now and then though, when I go on long walks to clear my head, I see things. Frightening things, terrible things, inhuman things that should never exist in the first place. But, it's just for a split second and then everything is back to normal. Pretty sure my eyes are just playing tricks on me at times like that. After all, I'm just a normal guy, with abnormal hair (permanent dye, the doctor says) and a regular, working class life.

If the Doc asks, I don't remember a thing that could cause me to have this strange sort of forgetfulness.

Waking up..alone. In a room that is bleak and empty. Naked, no clothes. The lights are dim as hell. Covered in a thin blanket with spidery tattoos, like living fingers reaching up and down my body as if trying to grasp tendon and muscle. I swear to GOD, as soon as I realized they were there, they MOVED. Wriggling like angry serpents, spikes branching out and disappearing across the expanse of my skin... At one point I'm pretty sure the fricken thing swallowed my body entirely and I was pitch black from head toe. It burned, it ached, like my eternal soul was boiling in tar...but I gotta say, it didn't really feel all that bad. Along with the searing fire something inside me was growing larger, stronger, more vicious. I could've sworn as I stumbled out, towel tight around me, that I enjoyed it. My own, secretive branding. A kind of binding or myself and something else darker, more sinister.

But that can't be true. Because when I was found, sick and dying in that alley, I was fully clothed and not a single mark was on me...