Subject #17: Anastasia

Chapter 1. Jennifer: 38

The island had everything you'd need to live in paradise:

Palm trees. Warm wind. The clinic’s white facades gleaming like a museum against the sea.

Except the doors here only opened from the outside.

Clinic of Doctor Kallias.

Private. Secluded.

On Wednesdays — bar therapy.

One glass. One cocktail. One chance to remember why you’re here.

I arrived a little early.

Dim light. Soft jazz in the background.

Patients were already settling in — some at the bar, some at the scattered tables.

Each one was served the same cocktail.

A tall, delicate glass. Deep red — almost ruby.

A strawberry and a basil leaf floated on top.

The taste — sweet, with a bitter edge. Spicy.

On the stem of each glass, a little paper tag was tied. Mine read:

Jennifer: 38

Dr. Kallias stood in the middle of the hall, delivering his usual speech:

— The compound relaxes cognitive control and lowers the mind’s internal resistance. That opens the way to the core trauma. Don’t fight what you see. Let the mind lead.

I took a sip.

At first — a soft melting sensation. Like the air itself slowed down.

Second sip — everything went dark.

Fragments surfaced.

A child’s laugh. Green swings.

A stairwell, a voice shouting.

My hands over my ears.

That was mine.

I knew it.

— First time?

A voice beside me.

Guy in his thirties. Skinny. Tattoos on his fingers. White scars around the wrists.

— Mark. I’ve been here a few weeks.

— Anastasia.

He raised his glass for a toast.

— Welcome.

He smiled — easy, open. Like someone who makes friends without trying.

— That was… weird, — I said. — Like someone cracked open a memory I never wanted to see.

— That’s normal. I started seeing scenes with my brother from when we were kids. Stuff I didn’t even remember.

— New cocktail every week?

He shrugged.

— Not sure. But they always look the same. Only the name tags change.

— The names… do they mean something?

— No idea. But everyone says it tastes the same. Spicy, sweet, a nice bitterness.

He took a sip and paused, thoughtful.

— Though... I heard some people, after five or six drinks, start seeing things that aren’t theirs. Someone else’s pictures. But me? So far — just my own.

— Mine’s called Jennifer: 38, — I said, offering him my glass.

— I got Anderson: 109, — he said, reaching out with his.

A nurse appeared instantly.

— No one drinks someone else’s cocktail! Isolation, if you try that again!

I finished mine and left for my private session with the doctor.

---

I paused by a mirror in the hallway.

The face looked normal. A bit pale.

But inside — something had been peeled off.

My name is Anastasia.

But the drink bore the name Jennifer: 38.

And I was afraid next Wednesday, that name would feel even closer.

Chapter 2. The Second Wednesday

Same hall.

Even the music hadn’t changed since last week — soft saxophone, floating somewhere in the shadows.

Some patients were already seated, sipping quietly.

Almost no one spoke.

Someone sat with their eyes closed — probably walking through the ruins of their trauma.

Another sat wide-eyed, as if he’d seen something that should’ve stayed buried.

A few were already being escorted out by the orderlies.

Some subconscious doors, it seemed, shouldn’t be opened.

I found my place.

The glass arrived automatically — same transparent stem, same crimson liquid, basil leaf drifting on top.

Same smell — sweet, herbaceous, with a citrus bitterness and that elusive note of strawberry, as if pulled from memory itself.

Label on the tag:

Jennifer: 38 — again.

Same taste. Same ritual.

I took the first sip.

The memories came faster this time. Sharper.

The staircase again.

My mother shouting — but now I could hear the words:

— You had no right to take that without asking! It was your father's!

And me — small hands clutching a black pen. I didn’t understand why her voice hurt more than the words.

Second sip.

It snapped into focus.

Keys hitting the floor.

The door slamming shut.

Darkness.

I was trapped.

Then — a sound.

Like static inside my skull. Wet. Heavy.

And the drop.

A different room.

Faded blue wallpaper.

Jasmine and metal in the air.

A woman on the floor — breathing hard.

A child sobbing behind the dresser.

He was scared.

And I felt it. As if it were my fear.

A man stood over her. Broad shoulders. Tank top.

A knife in his hand.

He was screaming.

Not words — just rage.

She raised her hand, trying to speak.

— Please… stop...

Her lips trembled.

Blood spread across her stomach.

And still — he raised the knife again.

I felt it.

The pain.

As if I were her.

I gasped and opened my eyes.

Air. Light.

Back in the lounge.

The music still played.

Everything looked normal.

But inside — something foreign clung to me, thick and burning.

— You okay?

Mark was beside me. His voice was softer than usual.

— I... I don’t know.

I wiped my forehead. My hand was shaking.

— At first it was childhood. But then... it wasn’t mine.

I looked at him.

— A woman. Blue wallpaper. A knife. A child hiding. She...

He nodded slowly.

— Same. Me too. Just a flash. Like someone spliced in the wrong footage.

He took a drink, stared at his hand.

— The rest felt normal. Personal stuff.

He hesitated.

— Maybe it’s just how the brain reacts. You’re on your second week. Stuff blends sometimes.

We were interrupted.

A woman in her forties stormed over.

Short hair. Sharp cheekbones. Wild eyes.

— Don’t drink it! You hear me? Don’t! This isn’t therapy. They’re embedding something. They’re not healing — they’re watching. Through us.

She spoke in a rush, stumbling over her words.

— The tags on the glasses — they’re not just symbols. You think they’re metaphors? No. They’re... identities. Someone’s playing them. Replaying.

She looked straight at me.

— You’re new, right? Think while you still can. They’ve chosen someone. Don’t let them...

A nurse stepped behind her.

— Maya, time to head back to your room.

— I didn’t say anything! — she blurted, and rushed off.

Mark rolled his eyes.

— Maya’s on anti-compliance. Classic paranoia. Disjointed speech. Textbook.

— She sounded insane… but something in me wanted to believe her.

He smirked. But something flickered behind his eyes.

Something his smile didn’t match.

I looked around.

One man sat with closed eyes, trembling faintly.

Another whispered to himself, hands shaking.

In the corner, a woman stood suddenly and knocked her glass to the ground.

— I’m not drinking this anymore! That’s enough! You can’t do this to me!

The nurse was already moving — like he’d rehearsed it.

A gentle hand on her shoulder. A calming voice.

He walked her out like it was theater.

---

After the bar therapy came the private session, as always.

Same office.

Cream-colored walls. Desk. Laptop. Voice recorder.

Stacks of files with names I didn’t want to read.

Dr. Kallias smiled — the way someone might at a networking dinner.

— Anastasia. Tell me what surfaced today.

— Childhood again. Deeper this time. Mother yelling. Staircase. Then... darkness.

I hesitated.

— But after that, something else.

He raised an eyebrow.

— What exactly?

— I don’t know. It wasn’t mine. A strange room. Someone screaming. A child hiding. A woman... dying.

I lowered my gaze.

— It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t memory. I stepped into someone else’s life.

He leaned forward, hands folded.

— Are you sure you haven’t seen this in a film? Read about it? The subconscious loves to recycle imagery.

— No. I saw it. Felt it. The child’s fear, the woman’s pain — it was all mine. Somehow.

He smiled.

— Sometimes, the cocktail causes deep neural activation. Emotional transference. Borrowed impressions. All very common.

— Common?

— Of course. It means therapy is working.

He stood and walked to the door.

— Don’t give up, Anastasia. We’re close. A few more steps — and we’ll find what’s been hiding.

He opened the door.

I stood, but didn’t move. Turned back to him.

— The tag on the glass was the same again. Jennifer: 38.

He nodded.

— The formula hasn’t changed. Only your response.

And for a second — I swear — his eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

Chapter 3. Anderson: 109

When I sat at the bar, everything was where it had been before:

The music. The lighting. The patients.

The same glass — crimson liquid, basil leaf on top.

The tag read: JENNIFER: 38.

Again.

I stared at the glass.

Every cell in me recoiled.

But my hand moved anyway.

First sip.

…Darkness.

White noise.

Blue walls.

A dull thud.

Metal against bone.

A scream — high, cracked, like a violin string snapping.

The smell of jasmine and rust.

And blood… warm, sharp, crawling across the floor.

I was there again.

That same room.

The child cowered behind the dresser, silent.

Tears on his face.

Tiny hands clenched.

He didn’t cry — he barely breathed.

In the center — the woman.

Weak. Still breathing, barely moving.

Blood traced lines across the wooden floor.

Her face held no fear. Only shame.

And despair.

She whispered something.

A promise?

A prayer?

I couldn’t make it out.

In front of her stood the man.

Heavyset. Bald spot.

A tattoo stretched across his neck.

The knife in his hand rose again —

And fell.

The sound was sickening.

Wet. Final.

I wasn’t just watching.

I was her.

I saw my own face in a mirror across the room.

Pale. Frozen in horror.

I didn’t want to die.

And I did.

---

— Hey.

I gasped.

Snapped back.

The glass was still in my hand. Empty.

Mark sat across from me, his own drink nearly gone.

The tag on his stem: Anderson: 109.

— You were gone again — he said, watching me closely.

— It was her again.

The woman.

The man with the knife.

The room...

It was worse this time.

Clearer.

I felt her.

I paused.

— It wasn’t mine, Mark. None of it. I don’t know these people.

He nodded.

— Same here. Today.

— What?

— Started with the usual — memories, my brother, the schoolyard. Then... something else.

He rubbed his forehead.

— A journalist. Guy named Anderson. I remember the name on a badge. He was hiding. Somewhere underground, I think. Then — boom. A flash. Explosion or impact. Blood on the wall. No clue where it was. But he knew he’d die there.

— Do you know him?

— Never seen him. But I felt it. He wasn’t panicked — just… resigned. He chose to be there.

— What the hell is going on?

I whispered it. I wasn’t sure I wanted an answer.

— I don’t know — Mark said. — But maybe Maya wasn’t as crazy as we thought.

---

The evening brought my scheduled session with Kallias.

I sat across from him, clutching the arms of the chair so tightly my hands ached.

He opened the file in front of him.

— Let’s talk about today’s imagery.

— No childhood memories this time. Just the woman. And the man. It felt... more real than ever.

— Are you absolutely sure it’s not a scene from a book, a movie… something forgotten?

— Yes.

— And the emotions?

— Overwhelming.

I looked up.

— It wasn’t just a vision. I was in her body. I felt everything.

He leaned forward, folding his hands, calm as ever.

— The cocktail can trigger intense neural immersion. Your brain attaches to meaningful constructs. It’s not uncommon.

— That’s not an answer. That’s a script.

He smiled gently.

— You’re scared. That’s perfectly normal. But fear usually comes just before the breakthrough.

I didn’t respond.

— We’re on the brink of something important, Anastasia. Not about her. About you.

I turned my eyes to the floor.

— Tell me every detail — he said. — Even if it didn’t come from your own mind. We’ll work through it.

He reached to the side and placed a familiar glass in front of me.

Jennifer: 38.

— I’m not drinking that — I snapped, hurling the glass at the wall.

He froze.

— I beg your pardon?

— I’m not doing it again. I won’t see that again.

His expression didn’t change. Still polite. Still pleasant.

— As you wish. But refusal to participate in therapy may require us to reevaluate your stay.

I said nothing.

Just watched the crimson liquid dripping down the wall.

The smell of strawberry and basil bleeding into the room.

Chapter 4. Maya

The sound of glass shattering.

Sharp. Piercing.

Like something cracking inside me.

I opened my eyes.

On the floor — shards of a cocktail glass.

The label next to them:

Jennifer.38.

Again?

But I left...

Or is this a different day?

There was no liquid on the floor.

Did I drink it?

The bitter-sweet, spicy aftertaste in my mouth said yes.

What day is it even?

— You're with us, — said Dr. Kallias.

His voice was calm. Too calm. Smooth, like polished steel.

He stopped the voice recorder. The blinking red light froze.

I straightened in the chair, my body stiff.

I didn’t remember drinking that cocktail.

Kallias sat across from me.

His posture — open, relaxed. Every move calculated. No aggression at all.

Which only made one thing clear:

He knew what was happening to me. I didn’t.

— Your response is impressive, — he said, like he was commenting on the weather.

— Response to what?

— The cocktail.

He paused. Just long enough for me to realize how simple that answer was.

— You started seeing in week two. Most suitable subjects — not until week six.

Some — never.

He was holding a folder. On the front:

Subject No. 17: Anastasia.

— What do you mean, “subject”? — I met his gaze.

He placed the folder on the table, stamped it: APPROVED,

then slid it into a drawer with a digital lock.

— It means you qualify, — he said evenly.

— Some patients, after the cocktail, start to see… more than their own lives.

Fragments of others.

Their final moments. Their fear. Their pain. Confused thoughts.

Their killers.

He spoke like a pathologist describing a tumor.

No fear. No sympathy. No judgment.

— And… why?

Finally, he leaned back in his chair.

— Off the record — we work with a classified FBI unit.

When a case hits a dead end, we try… another perspective.

You're a tool.

A living window into the closed.

I stared at him, and I could feel something inside my mind slowly — but steadily — slipping out of place.

— And if I say no?

Kallias just smiled, soft as velvet.

— No one forces you. No one holds you here.

But his voice didn’t sound like I had a choice.

He stood and walked to the door. Then paused.

— When you're ready — we’ll continue.

You're special. Even if you don’t believe it yet.

He left.

And then, from behind me—

— Her name was Jennifer?

Maya.

I hadn’t heard her enter.

She stepped out of silence — like slipping through the seams of reality.

— The woman you see. In the fragments.

I saw her too. Before they changed my cocktail.

She begged: “Please, stop.” Remember?

— How do you know that?

Maya stepped closer. Her voice was fast, but hushed.

— They choose subjects.

The tags on our drinks — they're people.

Cocktails are… a transfer.

Someone died. A part of them stayed.

You took it in.

Now she’s inside you.

— You’re delusional, — I whispered.

— Then why do you feel fear that isn’t yours?

Pain that doesn’t belong to you?

She paused. Her eyes never blinked.

— If you ever get a drink with a black label — don’t drink it.

Footsteps behind us.

A nurse.

— Maya. Time to go.

— I just wanted to warn her, — Maya said before fading into the hallway.

---

I stayed in the room.

Feeling like something had been switched on inside me.

And now the countdown had started.

Silent. Irreversible.

Chapter 5. Mark: 18

The lounge greeted me like always — soft light, the smell of polished wood, and quiet jazz playing somewhere above.

But Mark... Mark wasn’t there.

Not in the armchair by the window.

Not at the bar.

Not at the far table where he usually sat — leaning back, with that lazy smile and squint, like someone who’s seen it all and wouldn't be surprised by anything.

I scanned the room, hoping he’d show up.

But all I saw were shadows and the empty hum of ceiling lamps.

A nurse placed a glass in front of me.

I reached for it without thinking — crimson red, a basil leaf, that same familiar spicy scent...

And then I saw the label.

Not “Jennifer:38”.

It said: MARK:18

Something cracked inside me.

Mark was gone.

He disappeared a few days ago.

Now his name in the therapy schedule was greyed out — no sessions, no updates.

Nothing.

I pushed the glass away. Slowly. Calmly.

But inside, everything was screaming: Don’t drink it. Enough. What the hell is going on?!

What happened to Mark?

I stood up from the bar stool. My face — calm. My steps — steady.

I walked to one of the staff and said in the most neutral voice I could manage:

— Excuse me, I need the restroom?

He nodded. No questions asked.

In the hallway, I turned left —

and instead of the restroom, I headed toward the stairs.

Thoughts spiraled: I have to run. Hide. End this before they end me.

Behind me — a sharp whisper:

— You got a different cocktail.

Maya.

Where did she come from? She looked like she floated out of the wall.

Her voice trembled like always, but her eyes... too clear. Too sharp.

— What do you know? — I snapped.

— I know it was Mark. He started resisting. Now he’s gone.

They want us to see how others died — to see the real cause.

But Mark didn’t want that.

— Step back, Maya. You're talking nonsense. Mark never complained about the bar therapy. If anything was wrong, he’d have told me.

— If the name on your drink changes — you’re already on their list.

They chose you.

And if you start pulling back, resisting...

They’ll erase you. Slowly. Gently.

Because now you know too much.

— I said step back!

A nurse appeared — right on cue. He stepped between us, his voice hard:

— Back to your rooms. Both of you.

---

I sat on the bed, staring at my open palm.

The pills.

The ones I’d been collecting since week two.

At first, I thought they caused the visions.

Or maybe... helped me see them.

Didn’t matter anymore.

I swallowed them all. No panic. No fear.

Just one wish: not to be part of this anymore.

No more watching people die through someone else’s eyes.

No more feeling strangers' pain as my own.

At first — lightness.

Then weakness.

My legs felt like rubber. My head spun.

And then — I realized I didn’t want to die.

I tried to get up, reach the hallway.

— Help… — I whispered, gripping the wall.

Empty.

No staff. No voices. No life.

The lamp above the stairs flickered like a prisoner strapped to an electric chair.

I tripped near the stairs.

My hand slipped along the railing.

Darkness started closing in.

And then — a breath near my ear.

Lavender. Sweat. Fear.

Maya.

— You made the right choice. But you're too weak to finish it. — she whispered.

— I’ll do it for you.

Her hands touched my shoulders.

One sharp pull.

The world flipped.

The stairs.

The fall.

Pain.

Darkness.

Chapter 6: Anastasia

They found me fifteen minutes later.

Unconscious.

Foam at my mouth.

A broken neck.

A bruise near my temple.

Doctors whispered in the hallway.

The orderlies exchanged looks.

Officially — overdose.

Maybe a suicide attempt.

Unofficially — someone heard me arguing with Maya.

Someone saw her standing by the stairwell when I fell.

Someone found an empty pack of pills in my nightstand.

But none of it added up.

Too many gaps.

Too many maybe's.

Dr. Kallias didn’t explain.

He just took my file, stamped it: TRANSFER,

and placed it neatly in another cabinet —

the one with black labels.

---

Wednesday. Bar therapy.

Everything is exactly the same.

Dim lights.

That cozy, yet disturbing half-darkness.

The glasses lined up like museum pieces.

Slow jazz playing from hidden speakers —

soft, hypnotic, almost too perfect.

One of the chairs is taken by a newcomer.

A woman. Around forty.

Cheekbones sharp like they were drawn with a scalpel.

Eyes — dark, restless.

Fingers thin, trembling, scratched.

Old bandage marks on her wrists.

She grips the armrests like she’s afraid she’ll vanish.

Her whole body tense,

like an animal just dragged out of a trap.

But the strangest thing isn't her.

It’s her gaze.

It’s not here.

It’s stuck somewhere between times.

Her file says:

Paranoid schizophrenia.

With derealization episodes.

A common diagnosis.

But never an easy one.

This is her first time.

The orderly places a drink in front of her without a word.

Tall glass. Deep red color.

A hint of basil and strawberry in the air.

A small label is tied to the stem.

She stares at the tag for a long time,

like trying to solve a puzzle.

Then she raises the glass and drinks.

Slowly.

Carefully.

---

The next moment — something snaps in her pupils.

Like a spark jumps inside her brain.

A flash. Darkness. Explosion.

Images, blinking like broken film.

Her breathing becomes shallow.

Her hands shake.

Lips moving, voiceless,

as if she’s calling someone who isn’t there.

And in this chaos — comes a picture.

Not a hallucination.

Maybe a memory.

A girl with dark hair.

Eyes full of fear and doubt.

Standing at the bar counter.

A drink in front of her.

On the tag:

MARK:18.

Another flash.

Pills.

A hallway.

That same girl again.

Walking silently,

searching for help.

The stairs.

A push.

A fall.

And suddenly, Maya’s mind says:

> Everything that was before

becomes after.

She freezes.

Doesn’t breathe.

Looks again at the label on her glass.

In shock:

ANASTASIA:17.

How?

That was recent.

I know her.

---

A month later. Another Wednesday.

Bar therapy again.

Same room.

Same light.

Same music.

Dr. Kallias steps into the center like he’s about to announce the winner of something.

His voice — smooth and deep,

like a late-night radio host from the other side:

> “The drug helps reduce cortical control.

It lowers resistance of the subconscious

and opens the door to core trauma patterns.

Don’t fight what you see.

Let your mind do the walking.”

Maya is already seated.

An empty glass in her hands.

Watching the door.

A new patient enters.

A girl with dark hair.

Fear in her eyes.

She sits next to Mark.

Maya knows him too.

Maybe from visions after the cocktail.

Maybe from the loop.

She doesn’t move.

Just whispers, barely audible:

"I’ve seen this before...

Or I will."