He was born in a long trip to nowhere; he was born in the beloved arms of his goodness. They called him nothing and he was thrown to human lands for the eternity. Now he smiles like the devil smiles, now he cries like the humans cry, now he waits for someone in Frankfurt.
Frankfurt. About thirteen days before Day I
Doctor Mirror hanged up the phone and breathed deeply for the first time in the week. Streets were clear. It was about 17 p.m. and some children were playing near him. The mother of one of them was arguing with him. He would like to have had any son… no way now to think on it. He felt calmed, relaxed. He had spent the whole day alone, walking down the city.
‘You like this?’ One familiar voice asked. ‘It’s nice to see a mom with her son, isn’t it?’ The doctor looked him again, just a black hat and a long coat, nothing special… but he couldn’t look away from the man. ‘Are you feeling something strange? You feel fine?’ Doctor Mirror was quiet and looked again at the man. Where had he seen him before? ‘Do you remember me, doctor Mirror? We met years ago in a medical conference about flu. You were talking about the treatment of it and the different future possibilities of vaccines.’ The doctor couldn’t remember himself talking about the flu, but his smiling colleague was his only company in the whole day. ‘I must apologize for my manners, dear doctor… My name is Wilson, William Wilson.’
Flu Project. Page without number
Who was he? He had interrogated him with no permission. Where had he listened that name? W.W. might be a pseudonym of…. Who? He got confused for a distant moment, like the game he was playing twists again and again. Was himself a character inside a book? He had read a Poe’s tale called William Wilson and he had seen his face before. Had he seen it? Everybody might imagine a face by the words of a book but, this time, he felt the same sensation than Dr. Mirror: the man called W.W. was in fact old Michael, the book seller… He might be wrong and might go back thirteen pages before to find the solution.
He was really confused reading this book.
He had to rest.
He hadn’t time to rest.
The creature was born.
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid http://yareah.com/?cat=293