Hot off my keyboard… · The Storyteller's Path

Hot off my keyboard…

It’s a mixture of adrenaline rush drama and mystery. My heart is in contemporary romance. But this story hit me a little different. Don’t let the tagline fool you!

Tagline: Beta Tested. Human Approved. Entirely Stolen.

Title: SANITY

Author: BY KAIDY WRIGHT

Chapter One: The Architecture of a Void (1235)

Whoa! Time to get up.

The command came from a brain that didn’t recognize the body it was piloting. I rolled out of the heavy, silk-sheeted bed. My feet hitting hardwood that felt unnervingly... smooth. As I stood, a wave of vertigo washed over me. I scanned the room, my eyes darting from the high, crown-molded ceilings to the austere, ivory walls.

"I’m awake, right?" I whispered. The sound of my own voice felt thin, like a radio signal losing its frequency.

I pulled a plush robe over my shoulders—it was soft, expensive, and entirely... unfamiliar. Groggly... I moved and stumbled toward what I assumed was the en-suite. My mind was a sludgefest of half-formed thoughts. The kind of cognitive fog that usually clears after a splash of cold water. I reached for the handle and yanked it open. What? Only to find myself staring at a wall of empty hangers and built-in shelving.

"Wait a minute," I muttered, the fog beginning to chill into a cold realization. "What?"

I pinched the underside of my forearm. Hard.

"Ouch! Okay... I’m awake." I let out a dry, nervous chuckle. "Foolish me. Get it together, girl. Just... a little morning disorientation. Talk it out."

I turned to the second door and pulled. This one led to a long, vaulted hallway that seemed to stretch on with mathematical precision. I looked left, then right. The silence wasn't just... the absence of noise; it felt heavy, like the house was holding its breath.

"Where am I?" I asked the empty air. "Why does this feel... Strange and wrong?"

I took a few tentative steps onto the landing. My hand went to my forehead, checking for the heat of a fever, but my skin was cool. If anything, the cold was starting to seep into my marrow.

The Staged Life

This was not my place. I knew that with a sudden, jarring certainty. I didn't own furniture this "minimalist,” Which was really... just... a polite word for dull, "soul-less." I chuckle. There were no photos on the walls, no scuffs on the baseboards. What? No clutter of a life, my life actually being alive?

"I’m real," I mumbled, patting my thighs and arms, confirming my own physical boundaries. I touched the wall; the plaster was solid and cold. "This is real. I must be dreaming. Or I'm having one of those out-of-body moments the podcasts talk about." This is some nonsense, I hissed

I reached the banister, my hand gliding along the polished mahogany railing. Looking down into the foyer below, my stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.

"Whoa. What the fuck?"

The house was massive. It had the echoing, sterile grandeur of a countryside estate or a high-end gallery. I descended the stairs slowly... my gaze fixed on the doors lining the upper gallery. Where did they lead? Was someone behind them?

"Hello?" I called out. The word bounced off the hard surfaces and returned to me, unchanged. "Is anyone here?"

Nothing.

I reached the base of the stairs and stood in the center of a big foyer. “Hell, am I tripping? I hope not!” Something about this place right now. It reminded me of a trip, I think... I took years back, and it felt like a movie set. To my left and right, wide arches opened into living spaces. That looked like they had been "staged" by a realtor with a grudge against personality.

In my head I feel like I should be taking notes and detailing some things. It's what keeps me sane.

To the Left: A room that felt more like a museum storage unit. A grand piano sat in the corner, its black lacquer gleaming like an oil slick. Beside it was a delicate secretary desk and a towering armoire. Both stood like silent sentinels.

To the Right: A living room dominated by a cavernous fireplace. A modern, low-profile sofa sat atop a geometric rug. It was stylish, expensive, and completely alien to my taste.

"Did I win the lottery?" I joked, though my voice cracked. "Who would do this? Is this a joke?"

The Sterile Labyrinth

A sensible person would have looked for a red "Exit" sign. A seriously... sensible person would be screaming. But curiosity is a persistent itch, and right now, it was the only thing keeping the panic at bay.

I checked my wrist. My watch was gone. The light filtering through the massive, undressed windows suggested it was early morning. Maybe... the famous golden hour? Not that I have one.

"I’m missing something.... Oh yeah, the coffee scent," I whispered, my nose twitching. In my world—wherever that was. The smell of a French press was the morning’s first. A major requirement... for me. My only vice as a coffee-holic? No Starbucks? No Kona Gold. Awww man, I miss Hawaii.

Here, there was no scent. No dust, no flowers, no coffee, ghuh. Just... the smell of "new something." Looking around. I haven't put a finger on that something yet. Lifting my hand and scratching an itch that’s not getting satisfied.

I drifted toward the piano and tapped the high C. The tone was crisp and resonated with the acoustics of the space. Which made it even more real for me. Even if I could play this beauty. I wouldn't own this. I let my fingers glide softly... down the keys. In a mournful glissando, the sound echoes through the high ceilings. I walked toward the back of the house, my bare feet silent on the shining wood floors.

"Hello?" My voice bounced around the empty hallway.

The hallway was a gauntlet of closed doors. I didn't touch them. I was drawn... into a bright, clinical light at the far end of the passage. I moved slowly, cautiously... Creeping.

I'm feeling like a burglar, or even a trespasser in a temple of glass and wood.

The balls of my feet elevate me to tiptoe instead of walking flat. I never like walking barefoot. With not even a pair of socks on, the cool flooring only encourages me to use my toes. Why didn't I stop to put on my slippers? What was the haste?

The hallway opened into a kitchen that was the pinnacle of sterility. It was all white marble and stainless steel. No toaster on the counter, no magnets on the fridge, no crumbs. It was smaller than the scale of the house suggested—functional, but hidden.

I stood at the threshold, my fingers nervously... picking at my cuticles. A nervous habit that felt like the only "me" thing left in the world. My comfort since childhood.

"Why am I here?" I moan and wrap my arms around myself.

Frustration began to bubble up, over-taking curiosity. My nerves weren't just... rattling; they were screaming. None of this makes sense. Across the kitchen, another opening led into the unknown.

I can't say enough because I don't know anything yet. Who lives here? Who brought me here? How did I get here? A thousand questions running around in my brain. I could feel the headache coming.

"Fuck!" I had a choice. I could lean into this strange, beautiful vacuum. Or run like hell into whatever lay outside those windows.

But was the "unknown" out there any safer than the "nowhere" in here?

CHAPTER TWO: The Architecture of Amnesia(1068)

Minutes felt like hours. As I stood in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator; that was the only thing anchoring me. To a reality that felt increasingly... like a stage set or one of those games. I’d heard of things people did to find secrets of an escape room. Not sure if this is that. I don’t like freaking games. Not like this! My thoughts were a tangled mess of static. Finally, driven by a sudden spike of adrenaline, I pivoted and raced back upstairs. I had been in that bedroom, but I hadn’t seen it. Not really...

I burst through the door, my breath hitching. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. The rumpled sheets, the mid-morning light filtering through the heavy drapes. But that's when the epiphany hit me like a physical blow: This wasn't my room. I'm not a sleeper!

I needed to put on my thinking cap. I needed to do the research, organize my thoughts. Somehow? Try to make some sense of this. I needed something to take notes on or in. The lack of furniture doesn't help, no hidden draws in a dresser. Because there isn't one. The tension was starting to whine me up. My cellphone! I thought! I haven't a clue if it's here or anywhere to be found. Fuck!

The realization triggered a landslide of panic. If this wasn't my room, where was it? I have nothing here. Where was my apartment with the leaky faucet and the view of the fire escape? I tried to reach back into the archives of my memory, but I hit a brick wall. My stuff, my life before this morning was a wiped hard drive. How can that be?

"Wait a minute, I can try and think of an order. A way to remember and keep the details. “I'll call it:

The Identity Crisis, Damn it What if someone's stolen my identity?”

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

I gripped the bedpost, forcing myself to vocalize the basics.

"I am 26 years old." The words felt solid. Truthful.
"What did I do yesterday?" Nothing. A void.

"Now Wait!"

"Was I on a date? Did someone slip me a Mickey? Was I out with the girls?"

Nothing. No faces, no laughter, no clinking glasses. I had always prided myself on being a "clear thinker". The kind of person who could map out a plan and execute it with surgical precision. "Sannity Jones always had her shit together." But Sannity Jones was currently unraveling in a house of cards that felt like a beautiful, gilded cage. Am I a prisoner, kidnap victim, female being trafficked. Given some kind of hallucinogenic drug or just lost to a reality that hasn’t registered to me yet? What the Hell!

My mind was racing. I look down at myself. "What is this? I'll call it: The Wardrobe of a Stranger."

Suddenly... I stare at the door I'd opened earlier.

I crossed to the closet and yanked the door open. It wasn't a hallucination; it was a curated masterpiece. I rifled through the hangers. " Damn," my fingers brushed against fabrics that felt like liquid money. “So it’s a woman, who has me stowed away here?”

Maybe one of those sick couples that thinks I have money and they’ve requested a ransom. Good luck with that. I can’t remember at the moment what I’m worth, but I can’t pay the mortgage on this place. Who’s going to pay or even save me? Does anyone know where I am? I need my mind to speak with me. To remember how this went down.

Looking back at the clothes. Frustrated. “Fuck!” I go in.

"These are my style if I could have been in the position to afford them," I whispered, "but they aren't in my tax bracket." I know I am poor but… Damn" Whoever this is they’ve got great taste and an eye for fashion. I pulled out a butternut-colored pantsuit with a double-breasted, hip-length tailored jacket. The wool was so fine it felt like suede. Beside it hung a cream silk blouse with long, elegant tails. Designed to be tied... into a decadent floppy-bow at the neck. I even found shoes, the heels were a copper brown leather with a delicate gold strap. I checked the size. My size. Exactly.

"What the hell?" Frowning, I start to think about, maybe some weirdo. Who'd been starking me. There were all kinds of stories in the news about human trafficking.

” Fuck! Please tell me this is not that serious.” But, how was I supposed to know?

If it was something else like, random; as if someone had taken my Pinterest board and brought it to life. "Ha! I blurted out, me with an unlimited budget. The reflection in the built-in wall mirror showed a woman who looked like me. Yet I felt like an impostor in my own skin. Why was I here?

And more importantly... Why was I preparing to dress up in this high-fashion camouflage? Frankly... I had no choice, I have no clothes. Nothing here is mine. How can I categorize this to possibly... reimbursed the owner? When this menagerie is over? "I'll call it: The Hidden Sanctuary."

I still needed a bathroom, I was clueless as to it's location. But the room's layout was deceptive. I noticed a partition near the windows. There were heavy drapes hung in a way that suggested the wall simply... ended at a point. When I draped the suit and other items over the partition and stepped behind the curtain. The space opened up like a revelation.

The ensuite was a temple of excess. It offered every amenity I’d ever dreamed of but never expected to touch. I started my mental notes:

A rainforest shower encased in seamless glass.
A sunken marble tub that looked deep enough to drown my sorrows in.
A double vanity topped with glowing quartz.
A spa chamber at the far end, the frosted glass door promising a steam sauna.

I stared at the steam room, a dry laugh escaping my throat. "So, this is how the other side lives?"

The luxury was intoxicating, but the silence of the house was deafening. I was Sannity Jones, I was 26, and I was apparently... I was the guest of honor in a life I couldn't remember earning.

How deep did this rabbit hole go?

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