Exordium (The Beginning)

I stare out the window, eyes wide open, and ask my mother for the thousandth time, “Where are we going?” Again, she does not answer. She stares straight ahead at the road before us in deep concentration.

My mother and I are very similar in appearance; we both have thin, brown hair, the same chestnut coloured eyes, and freckles sprinkled lightly over our cheeks. She always wore a warm, reassuring smile and taught me to do the same. But today, our smiles are not present. But today that smile is not present.

My mother is acting strange this morning. At three-thirty she woke me up, hustled me out of bed, and handed me a pop-tart as she yanked me out the door by my wrist. She did not give any explanation or reason for dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night, nor did she give any sign that she found this unusual. Her frantic actions are beginning to worry me.

There is no doubt that we have left the city now. The towering skyscrapers and long rows of cars caught in traffic faded into the distance long ago. Other than a few passing cars and roadside gas stations, we are the only signs of life in this empty desert plain.

Hours pass. I try to fall asleep, but I cannot suppress the fear gnawing in my stomach like desperate, insistent hunger. So I decide to keep my eyes closed until morning, hoping that when I open them I will be back home, in bed.

Finally, the sun peeks up from under the horizon and raises high into the sky. Even though it is only morning, it is already incredibly hot. I can see waves of heat rippling over the road ahead of us. Mom does not have the air conditioner turned on.

By now, I can hear my stomach growling, my throat is parched, my legs are stiff, and I need to use the bathroom so badly I don’t know how much longer I can wait.

“I have to go to the bathroom. Bad,” I complain.

“You can go when we get there!” Mom snaps. I am surprised by her harsh tone, but more by the fact that she has spoken at all.

“When we get where?” I prod. Silence. I growl loudly and shift uncomfortably in my seat. This is going to be a long day, wherever we are going.

Finally, I fall into a light and restless sleep from a combination of both physical and mental exhaustion. I have been racking my brain to find answers for hours. When I open my eyes again, the sun is behind us, sinking downward below the horizon.

In the distance I can barely make out the silhouette of a large, rectangular structure. A building; finally, a sign of civilization. “Is this where we’re going, mom?” I ask. She sighs loudly but doesn’t answer. My excitement quickly changes to fear as I glance back at the building.

I can see two of them, now. The first is very small and made of red bricks. Behind it is an enormous stone wall. Coils of barbed wire line the top edges. I shake my head, my mind swimming with millions of questions. Is mom taking me to military school? Why? What have I done?

Mom pulls up to the front building and climbs out of the car, slamming the door behind her. She waits for me to get out before walking to the front door. It certainly does not seem like a dangerous place.

The room we enter is a lobby of sorts. A woman sits at a desk on the other side of the room, scribbling something onto a notepad. My mother approaches the counter and puts her hands on her hips. The woman looks up.

“Ah, yes, Sophia. Dr. Derro is waiting for you in the other room, there,” she says, pointing to a wooden door to our right. Mom, without saying so much as a quick thank you, quickly heads for the door. Doctor? I wonder as we walk.

My heart beats faster with every step I take. I know, somehow, that danger lurks behind the door. But I can’t understand why. The door swings shut behind us. My stomach twists.

A young man with dark, shaggy hair and glasses is sitting in one of four chairs surrounding a glass coffee table. He smiles when he sees us.

“Lacey!” he exclaims, as if we are old friends. Mom nudges me toward the doctor and I stand by his side, too nervous to think about what I’m doing.

The doctor nods to Mom and she takes a few steps backward. “Mom, where are you going?” I ask. She bites her lip and shakes her head, as if the very sight of my face is causing her agonizing pain. I can see tears streaming down her cheeks as she turns and leaves the room quickly, making loud noises that sounded more like choking than sobbing. I have never seen my mother cry like this.

I try to run after her, but large, rough hands grab my shoulders and hold me in place. “Mom, where are you going? Don’t go home without me!” I call after her. Panicked, I struggle to break free.

“Believe me, Lacey,” says the man gripping my shoulders. “This is for your own good.”

The memory of my last day with my mother slowly faded into the past. The days after my arrival passed by quickly and I slowly began to lose bits and pieces of it. As the days went by, I forgot more and more about myself, my mother, and where I came from. Six years, six long years, have gone by. All of my memories gradually become more like dreams than actual events. I can no longer remember where I used to live or my mother’s name. I don’t even remember what she looks like.

All I know for certain is that I was taken away for a reason. I know that I hate this prison. Yet it is hard for me to understand why. I am treated only with respect and kindness. The only thing anyone here has ever denied me is the answer to the question, “Where am I?”

And for the first few years, I fell for their little trick. I was living in a state of pure, ignorant bliss. But questions arise in my mind every day now, and I cannot brush them off like I used to. I can tell there is something these people don’t want me to know; an important secret. I want to know why I can’t remember. Until I find out, I can only wait in silence. Wait, and hope that I will find the answers to all my questions.

Who am I?