Anamnesis

Everything is surreal. I do not know what to think.

A girl stars at me. Her eyes are brown. It is a dark color that swirls with hints of gold. With those eyes are lips that look too full for the thin face they have been plastered on. Her skin is so pale. The slight hint of blush is the only thing that makes it different from the white walls that surround us. Long brown hair falls wet and limp into her face but does not hide her eyes. Red rims those brown orbs. She blinks once, then once more. She is tired.

I am tired.

I have never seen myself before. If I have I do not remember.

Looking at myself now confuses me. Never have I thought about my appearance. However, this is not what I expected.

I am naked so I can see myself fully. My legs are long as are my arms. Everything about my body is long. And I am thin. When my eyes move across my body I can feel my eyebrows furrow. I bite my lip. Maybe I am too thin. I am not sure what bodies are supposed to look like.

I reach up and trace my shoulder and collarbone. Bones jut out from my skin. I can see my ribs. I count them. One. Two. Three are visible on each side. I move my hand down to follow the bone. I go down past my stomach to my hips. They too are stretching my skin tightly.

Between my hips are scars. Deep tracks of puckered skin that are pink and hot to the touch. Tiny black stitches hold together a wound surrounded by scars. The stitches are raised and scratch my fingertips as I trace them. I wince as a dull burn sends shock through my body. It is not the worst pain I have felt. It is just uncomfortable.

There are so many scars. They litter my body like a map. They do not form any semblance of a picture nor do they rekindle any memories though I try so desperately to remember. Along with the scars there are black marks seared into my skin.

I can read numbers and identify odd looking symbols. They mark certain places of my body as if they are labeling me. A thick black line trails from my sternum to my belly button. Similar lines branch off in two directions. Those lines follow my ribs. Each line is numbered.

On my right shoulder is a number. It is a number that I recognize instantly.

83067

It is my brand. My hands, which have fallen to my sides, lift and finger the number that identifies me. The numbers are thick and black. It is ugly. I hate it. I want to claw these numbers from my skin.

All of these marks. They cover my skin from my neck down to my toes. There is even a small black symbol near my left eye.

There is a churning sense of nausea in my pit of my stomach. I do not know why these marks make me uncomfortable. I do not know what they are for. They may label. They maybe what I was born with. I do not know. I do know they make me sick. I want them gone. I want to erase these marks from my skin.

I reach up to a long mark on my left arm. There are symbols on my elbow that I do not understand. I scratch at them with blunt nails. Nothing happens. I scratch harder. And harder. I can feel the skin gather under my nails but the mark does not disappear. My pale skin turns bright red but that it is all.

I want to scream.

My fingers rub angrily at another mark on my body. This does nothing. These marks are here to stay.

My breathing grows heavier and my body begins to shake. I am confused. I do not know why I am reacting this way. Fear is making my skin itch. Disgust is making my throat burn. My body cannot be right. I refuse to believe it. In the back of my mind I know it is wrong.

A man in white walks in as I still try to remove these marks from my skin. I feel my back straighten and my arms fall to my sides. It is a response that happens almost immediately. I barely have time to recognize my movements.

In the mirror I see the man glare at me.

He does not look familiar. Blonde hair covers his eyes but the frown on his lips is enough. He does not want to be here.

“What are you doing?” he asks as he approaches. In his hands is a white towel that matches his clothing.

I turn towards him and blink. “I do not know,” I say trying to sound empty. I still remember what happened in the cafeteria. No one must know that I am remembering.

The man laughs. It is annoyed and full of hatred. “Whatever,” he mutters. The white towel is wrapped around me roughly. I yelp as my arm twists behind my back as the man pulls me forward. “Your shower time is up. I need to get you to your room for preparation.”

Preparation does not sound familiar. My mind searches desperately for what it could mean. I come up with nothing. I am beginning to realize that this is what these people want. They do not want us to remember anything. The unknown sends another rush of fear through my body. I shake but the man does not notice. He is too busy tying the towel securely around me.

“Move,” he orders.

I go to move but he pushes. I stumble over my feet but catch myself before I fall. The man laughs. There is a burn in my stomach. I want to say something. It would be mean just like he is. But if I say anything he will know. I cannot ruin the gift that has been given to me.

Instead, I turn my head and look back at myself in the mirror one last time. My eyes are wide with fear. I can feel it. It prickles my skin and twists my stomach.

I do not know what I will meet with this preparation but I must not show fear. With a deep breath, I try to settle my nerves. It works only slightly but it is enough to erase the fear in my eyes.

I must be ready for what awaits me.