Prolog
Petal
Is this what it feels like to be born?
Why do we not remember an event of such significance? Our first moment on Earth, our first breath, the first thing we see, the first thing we feel, the first thing we hear.
Our first thought.
None of it stays with us.
It happens to all of us, and we all bear the same pain of not remembering, bereft of that one moment in our short frame of existence when we are nothing and no one. Untainted and raw. Void of any mistakes, burden, and prejudice.
We come into the world with nothing but the skin that protects us from it, with a set of lungs that lets us breathe through it, a set of eyes that lets us see it, ears that let us perceive its music—and a head that helps us make sense of it.
But what if you break along the way?
What if your system gets reset?
Is that what’s happened to me?
Is that why I’m here?
Is that why I don’t dare to open my eyes?
I’ve been awake for a while now, but I lack the courage to act on it. My head is as heavy as my limbs, resting on a surface that is foreign to me. It’s neither soft nor hard, but combines both qualities in one strange blend.
I’m lying on my back, with my arms falling off to the sides while my legs stretch across the length of the bench. My arms are bent in an awkward position as they leap over the edges, causing my fingers to prickle when I move them, closing and opening my fists while they hold on to nothing but thin air.
My eyes remain shut while my other senses slowly wake, one after another.
The first thing I notice is the smell. It’s not a particularly bad smell. There’s no unpleasant stench infiltrating my senses, nothing that reeks of decay or mold. Nothing that would cause a person to crinkle their nose as they try to find a name for the unwanted aroma that is invading their space. It’s nothing of the sort.
But it isn’t good either.
It’s the kind of neutral in-between that’s impossible to grasp, like the air between my fingers. If someone would ask me what this room smells like, I would feel inclined to reply with: “Nothing.”
Am I even inside a room? My vision is obscured by just my eyelids. Yet there’s nothing but complete blackness, suggesting that I’m surrounded by darkness.
The sound of my breath is not joined by the soft whistle of wind traveling through trees in my vicinity, no voices in the distance, no feral chatter, not the slightest hint of traffic noises near or far. No breeze caresses my skin as my limbs gradually wake from their slumber, and no sunlight warms my stiff body as I loll ever so slightly, the motions traveling from the tips of my fingers and toes up to my core, as if I were making sure that I’m still there, that I’m still complete.
And then, at last, I dare to take that final step back into the world.
I open my eyes.
And I see... nothing.
Just as I suspected, there’s no illumination helping me to find my bearings. Eyes open or not, it doesn’t make a difference; the impression remains the same. Nothing but black emptiness greets me. The only conclusion I can draw is that I am, in fact, inside a room. A room without windows.
A basement, maybe?
I want to speak, but while my lips are ready to form the words, my voice is not. I lie there, my mouth moving like that of a fish out of water, fighting for a life that slowly slips away. A croak escapes me, but it’s all I can muster. My throat hurts, feeling sore from God knows what.
Screaming? Did I scream?
Why?
I flinch when my confused pondering is interrupted by something unexpected.
Light.
A light bulb is switched on above my face, blinding me despite its dim setting. I squint and turn, my entire body coiling on my right side as I seek protection from something I wished for a moment ago. Clarity. Illumination.
An explanation for all of this.
I remain curled up on my side for a few more moments, my eyes shut as I hide my face behind my palms. Waiting. Listening. But I don’t know what for.
There may be light now, but there’s still no sound other than my own erratic breathing. I’m still alone. Whoever switched on the light above my head is not here with me.
Realizing this helps me overcome the crippling fear that turned me into a ball of wool, entangled in my own confusion and anxiety. I open my eyes before my body unfolds, opening up to the room and finally facing it as I sit up straight.
The room looks just like it smells—like nothing. It’s simply a gray, dark cell. Four concrete walls embrace me—no windows, no pictures, nothing. Nothing, except a stainless steel toilet tucked away in the corner to my left. A cold shiver runs down my back at the sight of it.
This can’t be good.
My eyes travel back over my shoulder, finding a door about ten feet away from me that has the same color as the dark gray walls. It looks heavy, and locked.
Against better judgment, I make a move to get up and try the handle, but my body won’t let me. My legs give out as soon as I try to stand on my feet and I tumble to the cement floor, landing on all fours. I mewl in pain as I scrape my knee on the ground, my weak hands barely cushioning my fall and sending painful warnings along my wrists.
Grimacing, I shift on the hard floor, only now realizing that I’m not even dressed properly. I’m wearing nothing but a white nightgown that ends above my knees. White lace adorns the hem around my legs and the short sleeves that partly slipped down my shoulders, almost exposing my boobs as I sit bent over. I reach up, my fingers digging into the fabric covering my chest. The material is delicate, almost see-through—and I’m not wearing any underwear. I start trembling, sitting on the cold concrete with my bare ass, just a thin layer of white protecting my frail body.
My vision blurs as tears water my eyes when my mind is finally clear enough for the panic to set in.
Hysteria, desperation, fright. They all overcome me at once, joined by a sequence of questions I have no answers to.
Where am I?
How did I get here?
But most importantly:
Who am I?