We are silent, no one dares to even whisper a word. But the instant passes, and distress returns to me like lightning. For a moment not longer than the flicker of a heartbeat, there is safety in submission. We all know that we have our place, that there is no need to be first. No one is pushing, no one is in a hurry. The doors swing open and more white floods my vision. I look ahead, I wear a reassuring smile and I try not to blink from all that white.Ī gong sounds. It means keeping myself silent and compliant. After all, it means burying the question of my own identity. I try to give up obsessively looking for connections between what is happening, what is being said and the confusion washing over me in floods of unrest. I watch the people next to me and try to find one who is as nervous as I am. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. The whole building-or what I could see of it-is bathed in white. We are standing in front of the entrance doors to a large, white hall. I try to peek at the wristbands of the others, but I don’t have any luck. My wristband says: name: raven | age: 25 | 0609. I asked for her name when she put my wristband on, but she just smiled. That someone was a small, quiet woman with warm, gentle hands. Two days ago, someone disconnected me from the apparatus, put clothes on my bed and provided me with solid food for the first time since I awoke.

A placeholder to eventually be replaced by a reversible tattoo. Finally, there’s the paper wristband coiled around my wrist. And each of us looks as pristine as if we had just been born: no blemishes, no scars, no traces of having lived carved into the surface of our bodies. Each of us wears a plain black T‑shirt and dark grey jeans. I am standing in a queue with other people who do not look like me, except we look the same.

I press my hands against my hips so that no one sees.

Thinner Than Water by E.X. Ferrars