Touch Of The Past

Chapter 1

Four walls, one door.

Specially designed for me.

Eight guards, two at a time.

Specially trained for me.

One inhibitor collar around my neck.

I don't know what it does.

Security measures, precautions, probably cost a lot of time and effort.

They needn't have bothered.

I hurt too much to move, let alone escape. I don't remember anything, so where would I go? They remind me whenever they can fit it in that anything I try will end in electrocution. If I get past that, I'll be taken down by the guards. If I get past that, the walls and doors and barred windows and ray guns will stop me. If I get past that? They'll sic dogs on me, enhanced and thirsting for ectoplasm, which apparently makes up my entire anatomy.

...

So?

Something new is broken every day! I can't move! All I want to do is get a little sleep. If I sleep, my wounds will at least close, if not heal all the way, overnight. And even though the nightmares plague me like the white coats plague me in the day, there are flashes of impressions, of memories, that are worth the added terror.

I... I don't remember much. I can't really remember anyone's face, their names, or what they meant to me. Times and places are all scrambled, and I can't quite picture... well... anything.

At night, when I have the slightest willpower to spare, I try to piece what I know.

Nothing but impressions. A layer of black, with sparkling white dots spotting it. Swirling green, purple. Stretching my arms up high and twisting my torso, stretching out my injury-free muscles.

The only thing I remember remember is the decision to give everything to stay me; whoever that is. And even with the surety I remember it with, it's still an impression. I did make that decision. I gave everything for it. My mind was breaking, and I took everything and gave it up, so nothing could break. Nothing.

The importance of keeping my head my own, of defying whatever it is that they want me to become, is so prominent it is always somewhere on my mind. I don't know why it's so important. But I don't really know anything anymore.

Beyond the pain, how can I possibly think about escape, when it's only important to me that I stay... me?

Me. The only things I can pinpoint about "me" is the defiance thing, obviously. And I was once funny. Maybe I still am? I don't know, but the humor's there somewhere. I know I'm young. Or at least younger than those around me.

And I know I have a secret.

I know what it is, too.

I have another side.

I don't think about it often, because it's a part of me that is incredibly important and I know not even the impression of the other side is supposed to exist. Maybe it doesn't exist as an impression. But I feel him. And I can't help but wonder what he's-I'm?- like.

I can't remember my other face. I have seen my reflection- there are some reflective surfaces- and I try to picture who I am when I am the other. Is my white hair blonde, brown, black, red, gray? Have I dyed it another color? Are my green eyes brown, green, hazel, blue, black? Maybe I wear glasses. Could the eyes be purple?

Purple eyes. That would make me unbelievably happy, if I were to see purple eyes again. But I don't know why that would be.

Sometimes I wonder if I have a heartbeat. Most people around this place have heartbeats, but I don't. But it feels almost if... If my heart could beat, it would.

But that doesn't make any sense.

Of course I don't even try switching to him. I can't even think about him without feeling like it's unsafe for him. I know he is weaker, he doesn't heal as fast. He feels pain more than I do. He is the reason I can feel pain so potently, but also the only reason I know the pain means I can still defy.

He, while weakening me, is the anchor I have to reality. Painful with, unbearable without. Huh.

Where have my thoughts gone? Mentally, I try to retrace my steps, back to what started this string of thoughts, but am unable. My thoughts wander when I'm in pain, and there is no going back. I know I definitely shouldn't be thinking of him anymore. I shove him back in a deep corner that doesn't exist, and allow the pain to cover up the feeling of him in my chest.

I can't think of nothing, and I can't fall back asleep yet, so I'll play my game. It's not fun, but it at least gives me something to do other than be in pain.

What hurts? the game: the back of my head (I hit it there when I was thrown back, probable concussion), my right hand (it glowed today- green- and my escort freaked and beat it with the nightstick he carries. It's definitely shattered), the inside of my elbow (some injection), my veins (probably still the injection), my wrists and ankles (because of the ectoranium. But they always hurt. Same with my voice), and my stomach (I'll spare myself the memory).

See? Not a fun game. But, I mean. Not a fun place, either.

I close my eyes, and I can picture the room falling into darkness, no ethereal light from my eyes left to illuminate it. I wish my eyes would stop glowing and would focus more on fixing my hand, stomach, head, veins, brain...

At least I'm not always in the dark.

Hours pass, and I slip in and out of sleep, sometimes so nightmare filled I believe myself awake. Every time a nightmare shakes me, I spend the next while trying to calm my mind down again so I can return to sleep.

Sometimes the dreams are pleasant. They tell stories of a time opposite this one: there's light, and green from plants instead of blood, a sun, stars-beautiful, infinite space- and people who bring something quite different from pain.

But those are so rare, as rare as a day of no pain, no blood. And I never remember them when I wake up. They give me no hope. They are useless.

The rest are nightmares, nightmares that rip me apart inside almost like the men do in the day. All night, I'll relive the day.

Then the door to my room opens in the morning- or what I guess is morning.

And the real nightmare begins.