Subject 83

The snow falls in a white blanket overhead. People are bustling around in huge, fur coats and boots. Some man on the phone is screaming about tax incomes. Another woman is busy hushing a wailing baby. Cars and buses fill the streets of Moscow. Or so I've heard.

I've never been outside. I was never allowed. They told me if I met beyond the tiny room, I'd be killed instantly. I know nothing of the world beyond the big, black doors. In the center of the room lies a table. It has straps and wires sticking out of it. Beside it are tools used for prodding and poking my body. I get shivers every time. I don't understand why, and no one ever stops to tell me.

My name is Subject 83, and this is my story.