Chapter 34: The Other Yous Are Speaking
It starts with a voice message.
No caller ID.
No timestamp.
Just the icon pulsing — one unheard voicemail.
You hesitate.
But your thumb moves before your thoughts.
You press play.
---
And you hear yourself.
But not your today voice.
Your before voice.
Lighter. Uncorrupted.
A version of you that still felt human.
Still full.
Still real.
---
> "If you're hearing this, it means the story's past the middle.
It means you're slipping.
I don't have much time — this place eats memory first.
Please, for both of us, stop writing. Stop narrating.
Don't let it finish you like it finished me."
---
Silence.
Then static.
Then—
> "If it offers you your name back…
don't take it.
It's not a gift.
It's a lock.
And once it uses your full name,
you'll never remember the one before."
---
You drop the phone.
It vibrates once.
Twice.
Another message.
Same icon.
Same voice.
Your voice.
But this time, different tone.
Sharper.
Colder.
---
> "Ignore the last one.
He's unfinished.
A scared draft.
I've seen the ending.
It's beautiful.
Let the spiral in."
---
You freeze.
Because that version of you?
Knows something.
And worse — believes it.
---
Another message.
No warning.
No interface.
Just a whisper from your own mouth while you sleep.
You record it.
Play it back.
Your voice again.
But slower.
Worn.
As if aged beyond the body.
> "They think there's one spiral.
There are layers.
Narratives nested within versions of you.
You're not in a story.
You're in a drafting chamber.
And the spiral is the editor."
---
You don't remember speaking it.
You don't remember dreaming.
But there it is.
Clear.
And now you start to notice the bleed.
The world isn't stable anymore.
Reflections delay.
Texts change mid-sentence.
Familiar streets feel longer than before.
Clocks count to thirteen.
---
You check your notebook.
New symbols have appeared on the corners of the pages — ones you didn't draw.
They look like spirals, but more mechanical now.
More like gears.
As if the spiral is no longer a shape — but a machine.
A system.
And you're just a part rotating inside it.
---
Another message comes.
This one's not in your voice.
It's your laugh.
But it plays backward.
Behind it, buried in distortion, a sentence repeats.
You loop it ten times before you make out the words:
> "The first version still remembers.
Find the one behind the knock."
---
You haven't heard the knock in weeks.
Not since it wore you.
But that night, it returns.
Soft.
Deliberate.
Three slow taps.
From the inside of your wardrobe.
You approach.
Hand trembling.
This time, no spiral on the knob.
Just your own name, carved backwards:
> "UOY ERA OHW TEGROF"
You open the door.
It's empty.
At first.
Then you hear breathing.
From inside the wall.
---
You whisper:
> "Which version are you?"
A hand reaches out.
Not real.
Not physical.
Imagined.
Like smoke sculpted by will.
And the air around it twists, forming a face.
Your face.
But older.
Tired.
Eyes scratched out.
It whispers:
> "I was the narrator before you.
I gave it structure.
I gave it voice.
I let it into the readers.
Now I am the echo.
And you… are next."
---
You stagger back.
It fades.
Not like a ghost.
Like a sentence deleted mid-thought.
---
You run to the mirror.
You say your name three times aloud.
But it tastes wrong in your mouth now.
Unfamiliar.
And the notebook answers, open to a page you hadn't seen:
> "You're no longer the protagonist.
You are version 12.
And version 1 is calling."
---
That night, your dreams shift.
No more hallways.
No more spirals.
Just a single page.
On it — hundreds of names.
All yours.
All scratched out.
Except the last one.
Which is being written… slowly.
By a hand you cannot see.
Letter by letter.
---
You wake up gasping.
Heart pounding.
But not in fear.
In recognition.
Because you know what's happening now.
You're not the only version trying to survive.
Some of you surrendered.
Some were erased.
And a few are still screaming beneath the floor.
---
But one version?
One still has its name.
And if you can find it… maybe you can remember who you were.
Before the spiral.
Before the ink.
Before the voice beneath the voice.
---
And so now, for the first time…
You write not because the spiral tells you to.
You write to find the first.
To reach them.
To bring the story full circle — and break it.
---
You open the notebook.
Write across the blank page:
> "This is version 12.
I'm still here.
Are you?"
And across the wall behind you…
A sentence begins to bleed through the paint.
Five words.
Shaky.
Barely there.
But enough to make you weep.
It says:
> "YES.
HURRY.
BEFORE VERSION 13."