He blinked. He blinked and immediately realized that he wasn't really blinking at all. How could he truly blink if the darkness around was so impenetrable that there was no clear difference between closing his eyes or keeping them open? He tried to move slightly - warily at first, as if he wasn't truly sure about the result of such an act - and he cringed as each one of his muscles twitched in painful response.

Atrophied. The word came suddenly, as if it had been whispered in his ear.

Then he remembered the question. Although, it was fair enough to assume that there had been no question at all. Perhaps he had just imagined it. When one is half-awake, not yet asleep and one's mind is wandering freely, sometimes the irrational becomes the rational. At least, that was what he assumed.

What are you? It repeated softly.

"What... am I?"

His own voice cracked and sounded alien compared to his much gentler counterpart. One could even say that his voice wasn't entirely his own. How did he know that the first voice wasn't his? Were they both his? His head was playing nasty tricks with him again.

"Am I what?" His tone instantly became testy. What a stupid question to ask oneself - if he indeed was asking himself. Perhaps he wasn't as alone as he first thought.

You are alone. The gentle voice continued.

He realized then, despite the assumedly placid tone, that this voice was completely devoid of any real emotion. It was... apathetic. He blinked again - nothing changed, however. Everything remained dark. In some part of his hazy mind, he knew that he was once called 'apathetic'.

"Am I... alone?" Trying to make sense of the ambiguous voice only resulted in a painful migraine. "Yes," he concluded. "I am alone." He would have held his head if he could have located his arms. Perhaps he had none. "Where am I?"

"Where is that?"

He heard himself groan, then he realized that he actually didn't hear anything. He felt. He felt himself groan. There was no sound, he knew suddenly. There was nothing but feel. And he was with an obviously insane individual - or thing. He sighed and tried again. "Fine. But where are you?"

Another irritated moan. "And where would that be?"

That sounded about right. "Where... is my head currently located?" It sounded stupid the moment he said it, but making idle conversation so that he really wouldn't be alone didn't seem like such a bad idea at the moment. So it was justifiable, this momentary lapse of sanity.

There was no response from his ambiguous, soft-spoken companion.

"Are you there?"

"I suppose." He didn't, really. He didn't suppose anything. He could safely say that he had no idea what the voice was talking about. But he figured that blindly agreeing with it wouldn't cause much more of a migraine than arguing with it - or trying vainly to understand it. "So, if we are inside my head, I can assume that you are me?"

"Then why are you inside my head?" He blinked again and thought he saw something, a beam of light perhaps. No... a sliver. Yes, a sliver of light. He squinted what he assumed were his eyes, but the opaque nothing remained so, and the light was gone. It was nothing. He saw nothing. "How..." he corrected himself. "How are you inside my head?"

What little was left of his patience snapped like a twig. "Yes, I know! How are you in it?"

"Then you are me!"

He snorted. He felt his lips twitch and he laughed suddenly. It was ridiculous. It was too ridiculous to be real. He must be dreaming, he realized. Dreams were often inane, silly two-minute things, and the ones that were supposed to make sense were even more inane and silly.

"Fine. You are you and I am me. Great. We are both inside my head. Lovely. Where is that? Where am I?"

Your body. It wasn't a question, and some small part of him found that disturbing.

"Yes! My body - what my head is currently located on! Where is it?"

"No... no." He felt his head throb. It was too ludicrous to digest. "I mean... I don't know what I mean..."

There was silence. He didn't move, in fear that the horrible throbbing in his head would grow. He didn't speak, in fear of more asinine questions from the ambiguous, soft-spoken voice. He couldn't take it anymore; he felt like his skin was crawling, like his innards were trying to escape his body - what sort of place was this? He couldn't hear, only feel the voice inside of him. He couldn't see anything but darkness. He must be dead. Pain led to death, which inevitably led to hell, didn't it? So, he was in hell.

The silence pressed on his ears so much so that he could feel the silence, like a weight on his head. It was as if he was under water, falling deeper and deeper, and the pressure around him grew and grew... Did one fall in water? "Float," he whispered. "No. We float in water. Don't we?"

"...Excuse me?" The throbbing returned, a sure sign of more silly and obtuse questions to come. He almost regretted speaking. No, he did regret speaking. He was so tired. He only wanted sleep. Why wouldn't it come to him?

"Your name? What sort of name is 'Galian'?"

He expected such an answer. "Fine. Galian?"

There was a slight pause, as if the voice was processing the name. There came no response at first, and he could only hear the voice as it breathed calmly inside his head. Could a voice breathe? Could it do such a thing? If the voice breathed, then the voice must have a source. A living source. The whole 'I am me' thing was beginning to make sense. Almost.

Yes? it finally said.

"What... is my name?"

You have forgotten. Again, not a question.

"Yes," he sighed. "Yes, I have forgotten. Tell me, please."

"No! My name! You must know my name!"

"Tell me!"

He felt his mind reeling. Too many things, too much being thrown towards him, all at once. He wanted to say that it mattered; his name was who he was. But he assumed then that the voice would answer with "Is a name who you really are?" or some sort of bullshit like that. He felt himself growing thin. Why bother fighting with something that obviously held the power? The voice had his name and the voice was going to keep it that way.

"No..." he whispered. "No. It doesn't matter. But I know your name. Wouldn't the polite thing be to tell me mine?" He honestly didn't think it made sense, his absurd question. Why would a voice care about being courteous?

But Galian processed this, weighed it quietly, and came to the conclusion that this absurd question of his wasn't quite as absurd as he thought it was.

"But?" A small sliver of hope swelled in him. "But what?" he prodded gently.

"Of course!" But did he really? When no answer came from Galian, he thought about the repercussions of knowing his name. If he knew, he would then know everything about himself. Or so he assumed. But that wasn't the real question, he sensed. What Galian meant was 'Do you wish to remember yourself?'

Had he done something wrong? Had he done something so terrible that he forgot everything? Perhaps Galian was his punishment for such a thing. In that case, he really didn't want to know.

"Yes?" He actually meant to say 'what?', but 'yes' came as naturally as the water flowed. So, that must have been his name. Vincent didn't speak and he never wished to again. This name of his meant nothing to him, and knowing it didn't help his situation any. He remembered nothing.

He remained silent.

Was it?

"I... can't."

"Fine. I won't, then. I won't remember. I won't know. I'll remain ignorant."

"Excuse me? Mr. Valentine? Who is that?"

There was silence, followed by soft, nearly rhythmic breathing.

Said? Galian never once said anything. This whole conversation was taking place inside of his head, wasn't it? How could one speak inside of a mind? Did anything speak inside of a mind? They were thinking, Vincent assumed. But his tricky mind made him think that they were speaking. Vincent briefly wondered if talking to oneself was schizophrenic. Schizophrenic...? Was he? He was speaking to a person inside of his head. He didn't believe in telepathy, so the only clear alternative was that he was insane.

"I... shouldn't have?" This wasn't Galian, he realized. This new voice was different; it was foggy, it was distant... it hissed like a snake. This new voice made him burn with anger. It wasn't the annoyance he felt when he was first trying to understand Galian - it was an anger that Vincent never knew he could feel. It filled him like water. He was instantly consumed by it, instantly swept away with it.

The anger made him jerk against whatever it was that held him in place.

Vincent was beginning to hate those obscure, non-questions. "Remember...?" he whispered feebly. So, this new person, this snake-like voice, was a memory? Vincent suddenly wished that he would die and be done with it already. It sure as hell would be better than suffering like this.

Vincent sucked in a breath of stale air (had he been breathing this whole time?). "What? What did you say?"

Galian could read his thoughts? Of course he could. He was inside of his mind, wasn't he? Vincent instantly wished that he hadn't spoken again. Speaking... He was speaking this whole time? He had only assumed that he was thinking these things to Galian. One could not think-speak and then think-think. Thinking was generally the same thing. Vincent's head throbbed once again. He was speaking. Galian was the one who was thinking.

"Then... I'm alive?" The dead could not speak. The dead could not remember. The dead were dead.

He understood. He didn't know why he understood, he just did.

"Yes. I am me."

"Sleep? Forever?" It sounded almost enjoyable. To be allowed to sleep would be heaven, he realized. This was hell and sleeping was heaven. He wanted heaven. He wanted it so badly.

Was it a joke?

When? If? Vincent's head throbbed.

"I... understand."

Vincent knew then, he knew everything. That is to say, he remembered everything. Like water it seeped into his mind and much like water he could not escape from it. He was drowning. He was no longer floating. Galian did not speak again and Vincent could no longer hear his soft breathing. He understood. He was never supposed to wake up. He was never supposed to find himself like this. He was never supposed to remember. He was playing a game, he knew, and the game was to sleep for as long as he could.

"I was never supposed to wake up. I was never supposed to remember..." he whispered slowly. "I was never supposed to wake up... I was... I am..."

Vincent closed his eyes, but the darkness remained.

"I am... like water."