I have made a mistake. A terrible mistake.
And in doing so, I am trapped here in this memory. A memory that is not mine by any mean, yet I will have to live and experience it as if it is mine.
It is to the point that I feel like I am actually George Collins, the original owner of this memory.
This is his life. The life that he had lived between 1970 to 1990, and I have all of his memory as well as his experience and personality. His anger and frustration. His desire and dream. All intermingling with my own, creating a lot of confusions when I had first found myself in a hospital bed with broken arms.
Luckily, I am aware of what is happening. If not, I would have assumed that I am George Collins without a shred of doubt in my mind.
That would not be a good thing, given that I would actually cease to be Maximilien Maxwell.
