Shards of the Past

The last thing you remember was looking at yourself in the mirror - right before your own hand reached through the glass, grabbed you by the throat, and pulled you inside. You awake groggy and in agonizing pain. Small cuts are all over your exposed body parts and each time you move you can feel small splinters and slivers of glass shift inside your body. As you stand your head throbs, your blood pulses and a voice inside your head - one not your own - calmly states "Those who look out may only be freed by those who look in, the shards of the past are the key." The voice is hollow, as if spoken inside an open empty room, and - no not threatening - cautioning perhaps? "Our prison is fragile, yet eternal, we who look out." The voice disappears and you are left alone with your own thoughts and memories, or...wait no, no memories. As you search your mind there are images there, fleeting yet not quite your own, as if the memory wanders past your mind for but a moment and then disappears. As if walking by a window and then it is gone. Your head throbs harder and the splinters in your wounds move deeper as you go to hold your head. "Where am I?"

The last thing you remember was looking at yourself in the mirror - right before your own hand reached through the glass, grabbed you by the throat, and pulled you inside.

You awake groggy and in agonizing pain. Small cuts are all over your exposed body parts and each time you move you can feel small splinters and slivers of glass shift inside your body. As you stand your head throbs, your blood pulses and a voice inside your head - one not your own - calmly states "Those who look out may only be freed by those who look in, the shards of the past are the key." The voice is hollow, as if spoken inside an open empty room, and - no not threatening - cautioning perhaps? "Our prison is fragile, yet eternal, we who look out."

The voice disappears and you are left alone with your own thoughts and memories, or...wait no, no memories. As you search your mind there are images there, fleeting yet not quite your own, as if the memory wanders past your mind for but a moment and then disappears. As if walking by a window and then it is gone.

Your head throbs harder and the splinters in your wounds move deeper as you go to hold your head. 

"Where am I?"