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墨書 Inktalez
The doorbell rang sharply in the silent room, its sound piercing through the stillness. I stood at the bathroom door, staring at the reflection of myself in dark clothing in the mirror, momentarily unable to distinguish which version of me was real. The doorbell rang again, this time carrying an urgent tone.
Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the door. The view through the peephole left me stunned—an empty corridor illuminated only by harsh white light casting a strange circular patch on the floor. Just as I was about to turn away, I caught a glimpse of something white sliding through the crack beneath the door.
It was an envelope, marked with red ink: "For L."
My hands trembled slightly as I opened the envelope. Inside was an access card and a USB drive. The access card looked familiar; that logo... it belonged to the nearby mental hospital, didn’t it?
As soon as I connected the USB drive, my computer screen flickered. A hidden folder opened automatically, titled "L's Notes." The creation date indicated it was from a psychologist, but oddly enough, the modification date was every Wednesday at three in the afternoon.
The first file was an audio recording. I clicked play, and a familiar voice emerged:
"Today is the first day of treatment. I... I’m not sure who I am. They say I need therapy, but I’m a doctor, not a patient. No, I’m a Consultant..." It was my voice, yet laced with confusion and fear I had never experienced before.
The recording continued: "He says this is for my own good and wants me to trust him. But the person in the mirror..." The voice suddenly cut off.
The folder contained several photos. The first showed the interior of a café, identical to what I had seen today at Wang Ling’s place. But more unsettling was the second photo—a picture of a hospital room, with curtains and wallpaper patterns that matched those of the café perfectly.
The last file was a handwritten diary entry. The handwriting was neat in some places but scrawled in others:
"Today he gave me that medication again. He said it was Vitamin D, but I know it isn’t. Those pills make me feel strange; my memories are starting to blur. I have to write this down while I can still remember..."
"The café is fake. Everything there is staged. The nurses wear café uniforms; they think I can’t tell..."
"Why does every Tiramisu I have there taste exactly the same? Why is it always the same spot, the same cup? I'm starting to doubt that 'L' in those medical records could be me..."
The last page of the diary was torn halfway. My temples throbbed as those deliberately ignored details suddenly became clear: my boyfriend's white coat, Wang Ling's nurse-like demeanor, those indistinct "customers," and the tiramisu that carried a hint of medicine.
I rushed to the bedside table and grabbed that bottle of so-called Vitamin D. Upon closer inspection of the label, I discovered it could be peeled off. Underneath was another line printed boldly: Risperidone, an antipsychotic medication.
My phone suddenly buzzed; it was a message from my boyfriend: "Did you take your medication today?"
My hands trembled so much I could barely hold the phone. Just as I was about to reply, a text from an unknown number popped up: "Third floor archives, the answers you seek are there."
I recognized that number. It belonged to Wang Ling. But when did she change her number? Or perhaps... I glanced at my phone contacts, and next to Wang Ling's name was the title: Head Nurse of Psychiatry.
I decided to go to the hospital. It was nine in the evening; the regular outpatient services had long closed, but the lights in the psychiatric department were still on. After swiping my access card to open the back door, I walked towards the elevator with ease. Wait, how did I know my way around?
The corridor on the third floor was empty, the harsh white lights reminiscent of what I had just seen at the entrance. The door to the archives was ajar, as if someone had deliberately prepared it for me.
I gently pushed the door open. The filing cabinets were neatly arranged, and the air was filled with the scent of disinfectant. Following an inexplicable instinct, I walked towards the innermost row of cabinets. The third drawer down, fifth file from the left—I didn’t know why I knew this so clearly.
The file was thick. As I opened the first page, my heart nearly stopped:
Patient ID: L-0313 Name: Lin Miao (former attending physician, now patient) Admission Date: Psychologist Attending Physician: Zhang Ming (Head of Psychiatry Department, note: has a personal relationship with patient) Preliminary Diagnosis: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, accompanied by Dissociative Identity Disorder Cause: Severe psychological trauma resulting from a suicide during a consultation with a depressed patient.
There were many records following:
"The patient exhibits obvious tendencies of personality fragmentation, repeatedly switching between the identities of Consultant and Patient."
"Utilizing situational therapy, transforming the ward into a Consultation Room layout."
"The patient responded well to the café scene, and it is recommended to continue using this therapeutic setting."
"With the support of Medication Treatment, the patient's symptoms have improved, but further observation is still necessary."
My hands began to tremble. Those scattered fragments of memory started to piece together: I was indeed a Psychologist, but a visitor of mine had committed suicide while on medication during a consultation. That blow was too great; my mental state deteriorated. I began to hallucinate, unable to distinguish whether I was the doctor or the patient.
My boyfriend—no, it was Doctor Zhang—was trying to gently encourage me to accept treatment. The café was a carefully arranged therapeutic environment, and that mysterious Visitor L was actually another version of myself.
I collapsed onto the floor, the photos from the file scattered around me. One particular photo caught my attention: it was a newspaper clipping with the headline "Famous Psychologist Reportedly Breaks Down Due to Work Pressure."
Suddenly, footsteps approached from behind. I turned sharply and saw my boyfriend standing in the doorway, accompanied by Wang Ling and several nurses. They were all wearing white coats, their expressions both familiar and strange.
"Doctor Lin," my boyfriend—Doctor Zhang—said softly, "you finally remembered."
I looked down at my clothes. At some point, I had put on that dark coat. A faint sound echoed in my ears: "Ding—" like an elevator arriving or the café's doorbell ringing.
"It’s Wednesday at three o'clock," Doctor Zhang said. "It's time to go to the Consultation Room."
In a daze, I realized: that Consultation Room was my hospital room; that Visitor L was me now; and what I thought were consultation records were actually treatment notes.
All the fragments finally came together into a complete picture, yet I didn’t know which version of reality I preferred to believe.
I looked up at the window; the sunset was just right. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting intersecting shadows on the floor. In that moment of confusion, those shadows resembled the scenes in the café.
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