They told me once that the sky was blue, a wild blue where you could soar off into a
forever of dreams. And white clouds painted with red and gold filled the sky. And the sun
was a golden shield against the sky.
But now all I see is darkness.
And for the first time in as long as I can remember I am awake.
I can remember dreams of changing from my weak mortal self into a shimmering
butterfly, as a caterpillar changes from its deep slumber into something infinitely fragile
and exquisitely beautiful.
My eyes fall open and I see the sterile whiteness of the room around me. I do not
remember lying down in this room.
I try to stand up and find I cannot. There are metal clamps, warm against my
skin like tightly-clasped hands holding me down.
But suddenly they retract and I am set free.
I sit up, then set my feet down, feeling the ice chill of metal against the soles of my
feet. Something does not feel right, and I can feel something like a blanket curtaining
around my shoulders; it keeps me warm in this cold room. I look at my hands, touch
my face as if exploring a new terrain.
Hands. I remember hands. But not mine. Other hands, covered in . . . in gloves and . . .
A large portion of my memory has been sliced away. I cannot . . . will not remember.
A mirror. I walk up to the silvered surface to touch my palm to it, and witness another me staring
back. Reflection, familiar reflection; I remember me.
Everything appears proper and right; so I smile to myself, a little secretive smile.
But my back aches, as if I had been sleeping in a painful position, so I stretch the
muscles in my shoulders.
And then freeze, seeing the reflection in the mirror, the reflection of wings stretched out behind me, heavy with
pale feathers and the promise of flight.
Screaming, with fists curled, I smash into the glass; glass which breaks but barely
scratches me.
I curl up into a ball, afraid of what I've seen; but my reflection splintered into a thousand cold refractions winks back up at me.
