LITMIR.BIZ

      Ready?

      As much as I can be, I guess.

      Let’s start then. What is your name?

      Amy. Well, at least that’s what you tell me.

      And you don’t remember?

      No, not really…

      How old are you?

      I don’t know… I seem to look younger than you… I am sorry, I didn’t mean to say you are old, I just…

      No offence taken.

      We continue like that for a while, every question of hers leading into a dead end. I wonder if she is getting tired of this. I know I am.

      Then come the photographs. Some she has already shown to me, but the only thing I remember about them is that I have already seen them. Some are new, but they are also childhood and teenage photos. They are not showing me any recent photos, but I decide against asking why, at least for now. All the photographs lead into dead ends, too, and so do the objects: Doctor Jones shows me a couple of books, toys, some other personal items, but they stir up no memories, trigger no emotions. By the end of this whole experiment I am disappointed, feeling guilty for disappointing Doctor Jones and terribly hungry. My stomach growls uncontrollably, and she must hear it, too.

      I am so sorry for keeping you hungry, Amy. But I am afraid we have to go on with the second test now. I will ask them to give you extra dessert to make up for it.

      She smiles, but the smile is weaker than usually, a little frayed at the edges. She must be tired and disappointed too.

      For the second test she takes me to another room. Luckily, it is not that far, just a couple doors over – I do not feel like walking endlessly along the white corridor at all. Inside the room there is a machine that looks like a giant white donut with a gurney stuck through the hole. I have a suspicion that they are going to sick me there, too. There is also a window to a smaller room where a man in glasses is sitting in front of several computer screens.

      This test is very similar to the first one, actually, – says Doctor Jones trying to sound reassuring. – You are going to lie down there, – well, guess who was right? – and look at some images on a screen, and the machine will scan your brain while you are doing that.

      Isn’t it what the first machine did?

      It is, but in a slightly different way. This will give us more information. And actual pictures of your brain, too. I think I’ll be allowed to show you some later if you are interested.

      And so I lie down on the gurney, my head inside the donut machine. It is much scarier that the first test, mostly because of the machine’s low hum, almost a roar. It reverberates in my head, and I wonder if that is how they are going to get an image of my brain. Right in front of my face there is a screen, and the moment I look at it the screen lights up, and photos start appearing one by one. Mostly these are the photos I saw during the first test, but again some new ones are mixed in.

      Suddenly the screen flashes and I see an image that seems to be taken directly from my dream. There is a crowded sidewalk on a gray and cold day, and on the sidewalk, leaning on the wall, there is a girl. She appears to be homeless. She is thin and dirty, dressed in ragged closes. And she looks like me. No, she does not. The girls in Doctor Jones’ photographs look like me. This girl does not look like me, she is me. I do not know why, but the moment I realize that I start to scream. I scream, and I scream and I cannot stop.

      I barely register what happens next. The pictures disappear, the machine stops humming. Somebody pulls me out of it. I am thrashing and tossing about, trying to break free. There is no plan, I have no I idea what I will do if I do break free, but it seems important. Doctor Jones is shouting orders, almost barking at people, and her voice is not pleasant at all now. After she shouts out some orders, I suddenly hear her voice, almost back to normal, right above my ear.

      It’s all right, – she is holding my head, stroking my hair lightly with her fingers, – it is all right, Amy, dear, this is just stress. You are going to be fine in just a moment, – her voice is coming as if through a glass wall, or through water, but I can hear what she says and when I hear the name “Amy”, I lose it completely.

      My name is not Amy! Let me go! – I thrash again, as hard as I can, and want to shout something else, but then I feel something pinch my throat. Suddenly I lose my words, then I cannot move anymore, and then everything goes blank.

      This time it is not even a dream. It does not feel like a dream. It looks dark, pitch-black, and feels sticky, sweaty and hot. Somewhere from the back of my mind surfaces an idea that to wake up I need to get out of this swamp of nothingness, but I have no idea where to move – there is no front, back, left or right, there is no up or down. I am not sure that I even have a body here, wherever I am. I am quite sure that I am dreaming, though, – or is it just a hope? – but I do not remember going to bed. Right. Because I did not go to bed. Gradually, puzzle piece by puzzle piece some memories begin to surface. I hold my breath, hoping that, finally, these are the right memories, that I am about to find out who I am, but these are just the very recent memories: the needle in my throat, Doctor Jones’ voice, the thrashing and tossing, the screaming, the picture. Oh, yes, the picture. I can practically see it against the blackness, as clearly as it was in the donut-like machine, just the edges are swimming a little: the picture of a young girl – of me – sitting in the street, ragged and dirty, leaning against the wall. Why would they show me this picture, if they are trying to persuade me I am someone else? Was it an accident? “Or, – suggests a tiny voice at the back of my head, which I hate immediately, – you just imagined it and threw a fit for no real reason?” It is not true. I saw the picture. I know that these people are lying to me. I want to shake my head, but I cannot. Something is holding it, something is here in this blackness apart from me. My heart starts racing, and I want to scream again, but I cannot, and it scares me, I try to move my head again, and… I wake up. The lights are off, the room is dark and there is a hand clamped on my mouth, warm and sweaty. And then there is a whisper in my ear. It is hot and dry, and invisible lips brush my skin.

      Please, do not scream, I will not hurt you, I am not one of them, I just want to talk, – the whisperer suddenly moves slightly away, still keeping their hand on my mouth, – Ugh, sorry for the ear kiss, it is so dark, I cannot really see you. Please, do not scream. Nod, if you won’t.

      My first impulse is to fight and scream, after all, this person is not holding me in anyway, just clamping my mouth, but then I change my mind. If it is one of the doctors, then fighting makes no sense – I would probably just get another needle in my neck and go back to the sticky black sleep. If it is not, then it makes no sense either – it maybe someone worth talking to. And they say they also want to talk to me.

      Well? – whispers the person. I cannot even make out if it is a guy or a girl. I must be taking too long to react. I nod violently, and the hand goes away.

      I sit up and peer through the

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