《Memory Hole》 The Prisoner ? is your brother?? I do not speak. His hand, covered in a web of callouses and as wide as my face, comes down and stikes me right on my cheek. The metal chair, to which I am handcuffed, teeters on a single leg, about to topple over by the sheer force of the impact. For a few seconds, it''s dark. When I come to my senses, I can feel in my mouth the acrid, metallic taste of bile mixed with blood. At least I had enough forethought to clench my teeth, and save my tongue for the most part. A few drops of blood, mixed with saliva dripping from my mouth, stained burgundy the faceless grey of the uniform I am wearing. He''s still there, standing before me, legs spread apart and one arm ready to charge another shot. He is a daft mountain in a soldier''s uniform, a muscle museum crowned by small, pig-like eyes. From his vantage point he dominates me, hanging over my famished body with all the weight of a sentence already written. He waits for me to speak, I don''t. The hand comes down again, and this time the chair gives in. It topples over, falling against the concrete floor with a clang, and me along with it. I hit my head, almost blank out again. ?Where is your brother?? Same rhythm, same words. The same, monotonous sequence of syllables I suffer through time after time, for what have to be weeks, now. Or months. Certainly, less than a year. Yes, I am sure of that. This is only the simplest, of the many tortures I go through, one after the other and never in the same sequence, as they try to pry from me the information they want. It''s worse, when they let into the room other men ¨C prisoners like me, judging from their dirty grey uniforms and broken eyes, which I always make the mistake to look into as they obey what I hope are orders. Another favorite is to simply leave me handcuffed to the chair for hours, a whole day; until they rip me out of the cell and drag me under a cold shower, where I can at least wash the smell of piss from between my legs as I shiver under the freezing water. Today, this time, something is different. The interrogation, if you can call it such, is lasting longer than usual; and there is more urgency in the meat mountain''s physical assaults. Maybe they are growing tired, maybe the end is in sight. God, I pray between my lips, let it be the end. The same question, his hand raised again. It stopps above his head. The man''s pig-like eyes stare into the distance of the concrete cell, his other hand pressing the earbud clung to his right ear. He seems dejected when, obeying a mute and invisible voice, he lowers his hand, and leaves the cell without a word. Alone again, I allow myself to deflate, slumping against the chair for what little the handcuffs allow. Malnourished and sleepless, at times an action as simple as keeping my eyes open becomes a challenge, and resisting their tortures is growing harder and harder. But I won''t speak. Not today, not ever. The cell''s door whines again, and a man I''ve never seen before enters. He is also muscular, but it''s an expensive looking suit, tie and all, that encases his mass. A pair of ice colored eyes gleams against the darkness of his skin; eyes so blue, I suspect they might be contact lenses. The man grabs the other chair, the only piece of movable furniture in the cell beside the chair I''m sitting in. He doesn''t seem to find it comfortable, and struggles for a moment as he adjusts his sitting mass. He settles for crossed legs, hands holding his knee. He looks at me, smiles. He radiates the utter tranquillity of power. I have no doubt, he has to be important around here ¨C wherever ¡°here¡± is. ?I heard my colleague has crossed the line a bit today. Sorry about that. I''ll have a word with him, later.? I stare right in his eyes, unflinching. I know their tricks, they trained me for this. I could still hear my friends'' voices, my brother''s voice as they told me to never, ever believe they were on my side. Still, I have no idea who he was. I have to keep calm, fight the fog clinging to my brain and stay as calm and collected as possible. ?Are they feeding you enough? Doesn''t look like it.? An attempt to distance himself from my torturers, to create a friendly image within an adversarial context. Laughable ¨C which is why I feel a pang of fear when I realize that, in spite of myself, I almost feel something move within me. So, they were right. It doesn''t matter how strong you are; in the end, torture does get to you. I have to exert a physical effort to keep my mouth shut. His smile grows larger. ?You can call me Latimer. You know, they showed me the tapes, the other day. The ones in which you do... well, you know, that thing you can do. One of my men says it takes a lifetime of training. Standing on a pole in Tibet sort of life experiences, Prana-Bindu this or that, Tantra stuff. He says he never saw anyone as young as you ¨C twentyeight, right? ¨C never saw anyone as young as you capable of that sort of control over their consciousness. Is it some sort of deep meditation, some kind of self hypnosis? How do you do that?? This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. I knew this moment would come. They would go through the recordings of my hours of abuse ¨C there is a camera in the cell, upper right corner, in plain sight ¨C and notice the glazed eyes, the limpness in my arms and legs, my utter lack of screams or resistance. This is what growing up in a commune of survivors does to you. You learn ways to simply make it, manners of becoming untouchable. And my way is self-induced out of body experiences. My teacher ¨C whom I hope has made it ¨C says I''m a natural. That some people can simply hypnotize themselves into another state of consciousness by merely willing it, and breathing the right way for a few instants. Leave my body behind, and retreat to a place where nothing can touch me. Where I''m not there, while faceless men enter me one after the other. Where pain cannot wring out of me words of betrayal. Latimer, of whatever his name is, doesn''t need to know all this, so I stay silent. He comes closer, his face inches from mine. He smells of mint and expensive tobacco. ?Can you show me?? My lips, dry and cracked, pucker up. My voice is a growl. ?No.? The first word I utter in weeks. I clench my teeth, waiting for violence that doesn''t come. Latimer stretches on his chair. He pulls a cigarette box from a pocket, he lights it up. He inhales a long gasp of smoke. ?I shouldn''t be doing this here. But rules exist only for the idiots who follow them, am I right?? I don''t speak. That single ¡°no¡± cost me everything. I am pretty sure even leaving my consciousness again would require more energy than I have. One more ''interrogation'' would break me, and they must not find out. Latimer lets out a puff of smoke. His face hardens, almost imperceptibly. ?This could be over. I have the power to make it so. One word, and all of this will be nothing but a bad memory you can wash away in whichever way you like. You could be out of here, under the sun ¨C do you remember, what it feels like, the sun? I won''t lie, I would love to keep you here and have my men... better study this ability of yours, but the few above me have other priorities. Therefore, I am empowered to set you free, if you tell me where your brother is. We need to talk to him, and soon. Time is running out.? Silence. ?It''ll get worse, much worse. More violence, more solitude, more and worse men in your cell. No morning-after pill. No food? Latimer continues, counting on his fingers, waving his cigarette like a wand, ?actual physical torture. The sort of stuff where you pick you teeth off the floor, using fingers with no nails. We''ll eventually get tired, and find another way to get to your brother. You live only because you''re still useful, and it won''t be like this forever. Think about it.? I can feel saliva an blood coagulating in my mouth. My throat gargles, my voice forces its way through chipped, dirty teeth. ?Fuck you.? Latimer throws the cigarette butt to the ground, doesn''t even bother snuffing it out. He stands up, reaches the door and knocks on it. The door opens, before leaving he speaks a few words to invisible presences in the shadows past the threshold. He makes sure he''s loud enough for me to hear it. ?We''re done with her. To the Memory Hole she goes.? ---- They come to get me. Two uniformed men, both armed, drag me away from the metal slab which is my bed, push me out of the cell. The door slams shut behind us with a cavernous, lonely echo. Part of me knows I''ll never return to it. They have come to get me for the last time. We walk right past the shower room, and instead continue at breakneck pace along the corridor dimly lit, dilapidated corridor. Rows of doors closed shut, rows of pipes above our heads, the only sound is the echo of our steps breaking otherwise absolute silence. A door opens before us ¨C it''s an elevator. One to my left and one to my right, we descend. As the elevator clangs its way down, the two men keep their gaze steadily in front of themselves, motionless. I''m handcuffed but, for one foolish second, I wonder whether I could be fast enough to go for the automatic pistol at the left man''s belt, and fire at least a couple of shots before they turn me into a pulp. I suspect that a bullet to my head would be a better way to go, than whatever they have planned for me. I decide otherwise. My legs barely support my weight, I have little doubt that the exhaustion clouding my thoughts would doom me to failure from the start. As I am, I doubt I could even hold a pistol in my hands. I can do nothing but resign myself to obedience, as the elevator comes to a halt. They push me out, into a corridor entirely like the one before, and the one before that one. I''m barefoot, the rags I''m wearing are weeks old, and my legs are starting to have real trouble keeping the pace. Wherever we''re going, however, we are late, and the two men hasten, occasionally prodding me forward with the butt of their guns. The door we eventually enter is identical to all the others we passed by, but it''s not a cell we enter. I can''t tell how long it''s been, since I''ve last seen a room this large, or well lit. A concrete cube, bright as day, which could have easily fit my cell twenty times over. It''s perfectly empty and featureless, save for an oval shape at its center ¨C it seems to be a shallow, empty pool. We''re not alone for long. From the same door we entered, come more prisoners, each with their own set of guards. Men, women, young and old, all of them rickety and famished just like me. I recognize a few faces, and immediately cast my eyes down. Our guards push us forward, until we all stand by the edge of the pool, one way or the other. Some protest, some collapse. The scream of a siren cuts through the air. At our feet, inside the pool, from invisible faucets surges a shimmering, cobalt liquid. Dense, iridescent, like molasses. Instinctively I take a step back, only to be held in place by an iron grip. There are screams around me, but they barely register. Something, in that syrup which now caresses the edge of the pool, demands my undivided attention. It almost seems to try and wrestle control from me. It tries to hypnotize me. I oppose no resistance, when they push me into it. Freefall / Hospital One I open my eyes. There is nothing around me but the milk-colored, dew scented caress of clouds as they caress me. I feel a strange pressure from below against my chest, legs and face, a current of air cold as ice tears up my eyes. Scrap and pieces of what perhaps were once my clothes are torn away and shot, at great speed, into the white fluff that surrounds me. It¡¯s cold, freezing cold. I try and reach with a hand to wipe the tears off my eyes, but the pressure is too strong, I can barely move a muscle. It¡¯s only with this attempt, that my addled mind manages to put the pieces together. I¡¯m in the sky. The realization doesn¡¯t scare me as much as I thought. Falling feels a lot like lulling oneself to sleep, I realize. It¡¯s the same sort of suspension, the same in-between that is neither here, nor there. If it¡¯s clouds all the way down, maybe I can stay like this forever. I could fall, thoughtlessly and painlessly, forever. Not too bad. The clouds part for a moment; miles and miles below me, land stretches in all directions. A pale green, flat expanse with touches of red and ochre, from this distance I can¡¯t tell if if the differences in color distinguish cultivated land or some sort of rugged terrain. The endless flat is broken here and there by groups of sharp, oddly pointed hills; and dotted with darker lumps that, I imagine, could be villages. Far in the distance to my left, a chain of mountains cuts off the horizon. Miles and miles above the world, I am flying. I close my eyes, I smile. I¡¯m flying. ¡­ Falling. I¡¯m falling! I wake up from the haze that has gotten hold of my mind up to that point. I realize, with icy and sharp precision, where I am ¨C and what¡¯s going to happen to me. I am freefalling to my death. My half-naked body screams, every cell of it like a single, gaping mouth. I flail, for what little the air pressure allows, I try to oppose some resistance to gravity, but it¡¯s all in vain. My hand, my feet don¡¯t stand a chance against the pressure building around me, and in a few instants I¡¯m so thoroughly drained I can do nothing but stop fighting, and accept the crash that awaits me. At least, as if the universe itself pitied me, I stumble across another bank of clouds, which shields from me the sight of the earth coming closer and closer with every second. But hoping for the universe¡¯s mercy would be too much. It¡¯s just when I have come to peace with my destiny that, in the corner or my eye, I see ¨C or, rather, feel ¨C a colossal shadow cutting the air above my head, only for an instant. I¡¯m too weak to raise my head and see, nor I bother to try. I¡¯ll be dead in seconds, what could it matter whether I become a stain on a rock, or some beast makes a snack out of me? The shadow reappears, this time below me, and I catch a glimpse of dark, gigantic wings that flap in my direction, exerting enough pressure to fight my freefall, and send me tumbling among the clouds, powerless, like a puppet with broken strings. The impact of that gust disorients me. My eyes burn, my chest feels like it¡¯s about to collapse, opposing currents tear at my limbs as if trying to claim one or the other for their own. It¡¯s with resigned abandon that I close my eyelids when I see the shadow appear again; this time, close enough that I can feel its talons, each one as long as my body, close upon me. Come on. Open them. Open them up. You know you can do it. I open my eyes to find out that, thankfully, I have not turned into a stain on a rock. Sure, my eyelids burn as if coals had been slipped under them, a taste of blood and bile feels my parched mouth, and every single end in my body feels as if it¡¯s paralized. But I¡¯m alive, and that¡¯s a start. I strain my eyes to take in the place around me. It¡¯s a long, wooden room, with sky windows letting in the tame, pleasant light of what could be morning. Both sides of the room are lined with beds, like in an infirmary, of which none seem occupied. Well, except the one I¡¯m in. It doesn¡¯t take me long to realize I am laying among fresh sheets, tucked up to my neck. I am alone, and the infirmary is perfectly silent. Exerting so much strain I am, for a moment, unsure if I¡¯d even make it, I move an arm from under the covers, and into my field of vision. The sight scares me ¨C it¡¯s not quite skeletal, but I can tell the bones under the dry, scratched skin. I push myself to lift the blankets enough to find out whether I still have a body; and, if so, how much of it is left. Tears come to my eyes once again. Lifting the sheets just a little, I am confronted by a famished, ruined body, a mess barely disguised by a flimsy white robe. What¡¯s exposed of my skin is covered in cuts and bruises, and I¡¯m so thin I have difficulties imagining my limbs functioning ever again. I let the sheets fall. I need to remove this sight from my eyes, at least for the moment. Whoever has done this to me¡­ My mind halts for an instant. That¡¯s right. Who has done this to me? Where am I? Who¡­ And that¡¯s the moment ¨C still etched in my mind, even today, as possibly the worst single instant of my life ¨C in which I realize I remember nothing, at all. Who I am. What I am doing there, where ¡°there¡± is. I let out a scream. A long, sad, pathetic scream borne out of a body that can barely function. It hits my ears more akin to a gargle, a choked attempt at a scream, but it¡¯s all my fight or flight instincts can muster though the pathetic channel I¡¯ve become. Immediately, as if I have sounded an alarm, a door opens and a short, pudgy woman rushes into the room. Clad in an immaculate white uniform, her graying hair held in place by a collection of plain pins, she loses no time in reaching my bedside and initiating a complex dance, whose general goal I guess is to test what prodded me to emit that ungodly scream. She lifts my wiry arms, manipulates me, goes for my wrist and throat in a hurry. I try to form a word, forcing precious air out of my lungs ¨C which, after that outburst, feel like they¡¯ve partially melt inside my body. All I manage to produce is a lament that can barely called a word. ?What¡­? The woman gently presses a hand against my chest, which I interpret as a request not to overdo it. A couple palpations later she finally seems satisfied that I¡¯m not about to die just yet, and once again she gestures to wait before leaving the room. I sink deeper in the pillows around me and close my eyes. Once again I try to remember, this time forcing myself to keep calm and try not to panic if memories don¡¯t come at my beck and call. Considering where I am, and the state I¡¯m in, it¡¯s clear that I have suffered some sort of accident or injury, and it shouldn¡¯t surprise me that my memory is a bit loopy. I search inside my head, looking for a strand of memory, any shred of a moment before I opened my eyes inside this infirmary. I search and, for a moment, I seem to recall something. Water¡­ no, a shimmering liquid, the color of dark midnight dew¡­ Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. I wince, snuffing a yelp. For an instant, I caressed with my mind a black hole. A blind spot, where my memories used to be. Maybe they¡¯re still there; but, if they are, I cannot reach them. Even the big, round tears of frustration that run down my cheeks achieve nothing but making my eyes burn and my head hurt even worse. I¡¯m angry, mostly at myself. Here I am, powerless, broken, good only to water my face like a leaky faucet. I¡¯d slap myself, if I had the energy. The door to the infirmary opens. It¡¯s the nurse again, but this time she has company. Behind her is a tall, well built man. He doesn¡¯t look too old, but his short beard and hair are tinged by visible streaks of grey. He wears formal clothing, waistcoat and all, and small round glasses are perched on his nose. The woman stays at the door, fidgeting with her pudgy hands; the man grabs a chair and sets it right by my bedside. He sinks his hand into his pocket and then outstretches it, showing in his rough palm a small pill. Oval, opaque, a deep blue veering towards black. The color of my missing memories. I look into the man¡¯s eyes. Behind the thick lenses, they are gentle but firm. He gestures for me to take the pill in my hand; when my stillness makes it pretty clear I don¡¯t have the energy nor force of will to do so, he pushes it against my cracked lips and in between my teeth. I offer no opposition and swallow the pill. I can barely move, barely think ¨C what would be the point in resisting? I wait for what I imagine will be unbearable pain as that medicine works its ¡°magic¡± on my ravaged body, but it doesn¡¯t come. Instead, as the seconds pass slow like molasses, the only effect I can feel is a steady, tangible clearing of my mind, as if a bit of the haze that held it in its grasp up to that instant finally let go. The man patiently sits by my side, occasionally checking the time on his pocket watch. Finally satisfied with whatever he¡¯s waiting, he looks at me and smiles. ?So, how are we doing today?? And then he waits some more. Truth to be told, after my recent attempts, speaking is something I would rather not do at the moment. He stays there, placid, waiting for me to speak. He seems thoroughly relaxed, while I feel a tension grow within me. This won¡¯t end until I speak, so I might as well. Too bad for you, old man. ?¡­ could be better? I mumble, then widen my eyes in surprise. No brain fog, no indecision, no burning throat or words harsh like thorns. Just a little tiredness, the deflated voice of a convalescent. But I can speak somewhat clearly, and that¡¯s the moment when I also realize my arms and legs seem a bit lighter. I feel, in fact, better overall. The man smiles. ?A single dose of mana is not enough to get you back on your feet, but it¡¯s a start. We have to go by degrees, everyone has their ideal threshold and we don¡¯t want you to overdose. You must be very confused, I imagine. We should probably start with introductions ¨C you just sit there and relax. I¡¯m Ozyas. To make things simple, let¡¯s say I¡¯m the boss around here? he added with a gentle laugh. ?The worrywart at the door is Isala, the head nurse of this hospital. What¡¯s your name?? I¡¯m not going to face that black hole inside my mind again, not for the moment. ?I don¡¯t remember.? Ozyas nodded. He doesn¡¯t seem particularly surprised by my reply; if anything, slightly disappointed, as if it¡¯s a recurring instance he was tired of hearing. It only lasts for a moment, though, and he soon is back to his jovial countenance. ?That¡¯s alright, we¡¯ll fix that as soon as possible. For now, your only job is to rest and take your medicine. Let¡¯s start with some good news ¨C a severe case of malnutrition and, obviously, mana starvation aside, you are in remarkably good health. No broken bones, no traumas, a few bruises here and there. Nothing serious. Say, how would you feel about a little fresh air? some sun would do you good, and in the meantime I could answer your questions.? With the impeccable professionalism I would come to know in the following months, as soon as she hears those words the nurse Isala hurries to the opposite side of the room and pushes a contraption all the way to my bedside. A wheelchair. ?You¡¯re still too weak to walk on your own, so this will have to do for now. Just hang tight.? Ozyas removes the sheets and effortlessly lifts me off the bed onto the wheelchair. He and Isala exchange a few words I can¡¯t hear, and then the man gently pushes me outside the infirmary, into a spacious corridor, stone walled with wooden inlays. The wheels of the chair creak as Ozyas guides me along the empty corridors. I slump upon the cushioned seat, while my eyes explore the surroundings. ?Very empty? I say. Ozyas chuckles. ?It¡¯s lunchtime, everyone is down at the cafeteria. A bit too soon for you stomach, for now you¡¯ll have to do without Granma¡¯s excellent cooking. We¡¯ll give you some more mana and some fluids once we¡¯re back.? I don¡¯t protest; though, truth to be told, I am a bit hungry. It¡¯s as if that blue pill I swallowed has reawakened me, returning my energy but, at the same time, the uncomfortable sensation of having a body. Some of my bruises sort of hurt again and, while the cloudiness in my brain is almost gone, I feel slight pangs of whiplash running from the back of my neck to my forehead. We open a door and exit upon a terrace. Ozyas stops the wheelchair once we¡¯re all the way against the stone railing, so that I might take in the surroundings, and the vista before me. It¡¯s a wonderful day, the sky is entirely clear and the sun is pleasantly warm against my skin. The terrace we are on is the flat roof of a red-stone building, a tiered structure perched on top of a tall hill that dominates what appears to be mostly cultivated farmland, save for a few groups of sister hills in the distance. The color of the land, mostly a mossy dark green, occasionally gives in to patches of a strangely dark, burgundy red. Against the horizon, so far they¡¯re nothing but a thick line drawn at the feet of the sky, it¡¯s a vast mountain chain. Ozyas sits against the railing, next to me. ?This place is Hospital One, and what you see before you is Zenobia. None of these names mean anything to you, I imagine.? I stand silent for a moment, then shake my head. Ozyas sighs. ?Would have been too good to be true. Now, I¡¯m not quite sure how to start ¨C which is sort of funny, considering how many times I had to do this already ¨C but I guess the best way is to simply explain the situation, and then you can ask me any question you have. How does it sound?? Eyes on the horizon, I nod. I can almost feel Ozyas breathe in, preparing himself. ?You have fallen through a Hole in the sky, into Zenobia. You¡¯re not the first one, so we were ready to catch you before you became part of the landscape. Unfortunately, we have only one rider, so we had to make choices. You were the only one we were able to save.? I show no reaction. I don¡¯t even know which ¡°others¡± he¡¯s talking about. ?I remember only ¨C? I say. ?Wings. Dark wings. And talons. I though I was done for.? Ozyas laughs, heartily. ?Xaver will be happy to know him and Doa made such a big impression on you. Some researchers have put together flying machines, but they¡¯re all prototypes for now. We still rely on¡­ let¡¯s say, animal flightpower to catch people falling from Holes. I¡¯m sure you will get a chance to meet both Xaver and his ride, in time. Now, as I was saying, we were able to save you; but it¡¯s easy to see you suffer from amnesia, for all that concerns your life before you fell from the Hole. Your memories ¨C ? ?Are you a doctor?? I interrupt. ?Sort of.? ?Will they come back?? Ozyas sighed again. ?You would be the first one in history.? I stand silent, eyes on the panorama before me. With my mind¡¯s eye, I imagine a tiny speck in the distance, a flailing small insect who doesn¡¯t know who she is, falling off a Hole in the sky, whatever that means. Lost, no memory of who she is, no past. Would she want to be saved? ?I know this is a lot to take in at once. If you have any question, I¡¯m here to answer.? This time, it¡¯s my turn to take a deep breath. ?What will be of me?? Ozyas picks his glasses and cleans the lenses with a handkerchief he produces from his pocket. ?Well, you are our guest. All expenses paid, though eventually you will need to find an occupation to sustain yourself. But that¡¯s far in the future. For now, all you need to do is recover. After that, let¡¯s say you¡¯ll be enrolled in a school of sorts. Don¡¯t worry, we will do all we can to get you adjusted to you new life.? My new life. I lay back my head and close my eyes. I bask in the sun, feeling my body grow lighter and warmer. ?Anything else you want to ask?? Ozyas says. ?Can we stay here a little longer?? He doesn¡¯t answer, but even with my eyes closed I can feel him sitting more comfortably against the railing. We both stay silent, I don¡¯t know what he might be thinking, nor I care. I clear my head of all thoughts, push aside the new reality I have been thrust into, and decide that the only reality I want, for the moment, is the warmth of the sun. This girl with no name just wants to exist. ¡­ ¡­. ?Hyos. My name is Hyos.? I open my eyes. Ozyas stares at me, tense with expectation. ?You mean that¡­? ?No. I just like the way it sounds. Do you like it?? ¡­ ¡­. He laughs. A long, hearthy laugh. A laugh of surprise. A laugh of amazement. A bitter laugh of disappointment. A laugh that has me truly born into this new world. A laugh I will never forget. Xaver / Lunchtime I sling the canvas bag over my shoulder and leave the classroom. I am not in a hurry, though I am sort of late for an appointment. By now, I¡¯m pretty sure most of the Hospital has gotten used to my chronic tardiness, and I¡¯m sure he won¡¯t mind. I¡¯ll have no difficulties, finding a way to make him forgive me. It¡¯s almost lunchtime, and most of the staff is leaving their offices and assigned post, making their way to the cafeteria on the ground floor. I concentrate, trying to recall what¡¯s for lunch today. Not because it¡¯d make any difference; rather, because one of the ¡®healthy habits¡¯ ¨C at least according to Ozyas ¨C I have developed is to take advantage of any chance I get to train my memory. Long term recollecting, I have sort of given up on it, but even its short term sister sometimes fails me. According to the physicians who monitor me like I am some sort of rare creature, it¡¯s one of the many, minor symptoms of Hole crossing that should eventually disappear. I was simply hoping that six months would be enough. Tough luck. This is the peak hour of bustling movement between rooms and floors, and sometimes I have to push forward, shoulder first, in order to navigate across the mass of Hospital employees and guests. It¡¯s not easy at all, considering the top of my head barely grazes the shoulders of most male workers, and most women stand taller than me as well. Six months of a special diet have done wonders returning that graveyard that was my body to an acceptable state; maybe even too much, as I have soon found out that, with the appropriate amount of muscle and substance around them, I have what nurse Isala mercifully calls ¡®birthing hips¡¯. I try to balance my curviness with an appropriate amount of hours at the gymnasium. Knowing the future ahead of me in just a few months, the last thing I want is to turn into a helpless damsel in distress. I finally make my way out of the crowd as, instead of taking one of the elevators to the ground floor, I take a turn and climb a narrow set of stone stairs, leading to a covered terrace nested in the back of the Hospital, between the building itself and the rocky hillside it rests against ¨C the Hospital¡¯s rookery. There, I find Xaver, who is busy grooming Doa¡¯s feathers. They are both silent, lost in the concentration of the task, but they both turn in my direction as soon as they hear my footsteps approaching them, and the sound of my bag dropping to the floor. Doa shifts its huge mass and ruffles its black, feathered wings, then takes a few steps in my direction. Though I know it means no harm, I find myself taking a couple steps back, if only for paying respect to its gigantic size. Once that ground is established, however, I let its long, feathering neck extend until its face is mere inches from mine. A perfect oval, with beady black eyes and a mouth remarkably similar to that of a human ¨C if it wasn¡¯t for the serrated rows of needle-like teeth. ?Hyoooossss? the creature creaks. I extend a hand and caress its leathery cheek, its face being the only part of it not covered in jet black feathers. ?Oh, poor thing. You seem a bit worn out. Xaver still keeping you on a diet?? I say, puckering my lips and scratching Doa¡¯s chin. The creature hisses in appreciation. ?A bit worn out compared to yesterday?? asks Xaver, approaching us, a small bag in his hand. He pulls out of it a shimmering, dark blue marble, which tosses with a flick of a thumb in the direction of Doa. The creature curls its neck and snaps the marble with its fangs so fast, my hand is still hanging where its chin was. ?Maybe we should loosen the diet a bit? Xaver says, tossing the creature another sphere. ?I¡¯ll have to ask Ozyas to budget us more mana. After all, we deserve it.? I move a step towards him. Xaver is not particularly tall as a man, though he still overtakes me by at least a span. Shaped, however, by hours of daily mandatory exercising, even the somewhat baggy work clothes he wears can¡¯t hide his more than acceptable form. ?You deserve it? and why would that be?? ?Well, for starters, we saved you.? I don¡¯t even bother checking our surroundings, before I let myself fall against him. He catches me and, wrapping a hand around the side of my face, pushes our mouths against each other. My hand pushes through his clothes, searching for his skin; while his fingers, having to work through the single layer of a light shirt, are already wrapped around my left breast. Doa, faced with these expressions of human affection, has already lost all interest, and I see from the corner of my eye that it¡¯s sitting, like an oversized chicken, on a soft pallet of hay in a corner of the covered terrace. It¡¯s facing the door, which is good ¨C we¡¯ll be able to tell immediately, in the remote case someone blunders up here and threatens to spoil our fun. There is nowhere comfortable to lay down, so the only option is standing up. Xaver¡¯s hands guide me as I turn around, pressing my arms and chest against the stony wall. He¡¯s already working to push aside my underwear, when a shrill noise startles me, him, and Doa along with us ¨C the creature stirs its neck and peers, curious, in the direction of a jacket, left hanging from a large nail hammered into the wall. ?¡­ oh please, not again? I mutter. I turn around, hands still pressed against the wall. Xaver¡¯s brow is furrowed, he¡¯s biting his lower lip. For a moment I hope he¡¯ll be able to ignore that shrill siren and keep going; but, unlike me, he makes it a sticking point to be on time everywhere. Leaving me with a gentle pat on my ass, he reaches for the jacket and turns off the alarm ¨C a blasted, mana-powered gadget from Goerith that Ozyas requires ¡®essential workers¡¯ to carry with them at all times. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. ?You¡¯re not getting out of it this easily? I say, adjusting my pants and shirt. ?Dinnertime, and I don¡¯t want to hear shit. You better have the whole evening free for us.? Xaver smiles, sliding out of his work clothes and refreshing his half naked body ¨C what an asshole ¨C with the hose he was using to wash Doa¡¯s feathers. ?No worries, I¡¯ll be there, there is another meeting later this afternoon but I¡¯ll be long done by dinnertime. I wonder why the old man has become so obsessed with staff meetings.? ?Think it has something to do with those visitors from the West we had?? He shrugs, as he tosses the towel aside and slides on a shirt and pants. ?Who knows. Hopefully this will be the time we find out for good. Ozyas likes to play mysterious sometimes, but I¡¯m sort of getting tired of it. It¡¯s my future too, after all.? I approach him, and put a finger on his chest as I smirk. ?And what if he decides to send you far, far away, on some mission, to some land filled with pretty women?? Playful as I try to be, I can¡¯t deny that, even to my ears, there is a bit of a hollow ring to these words ¨C a hint of hopelessness that, just like that dumb alarm, more and more often rears its head between me and him, when we are together. A hint which he, just like always, doesn¡¯t get. ?Oh, you¡¯ll be just fine without me? he says, kissing me again. But I¡¯m rigid, and barely reciprocate. It doesn¡¯t matter if his words are just a blatant jest; those are not the words I want to hear. Would it cost him so much to just say ¡®you¡¯d come with me¡¯, whether it¡¯s true or not? Unfortunately for both of us, I¡¯m as much of a lumbering oaf as he is, and once again I say nothing. I force a smile ¨C a convincing smile, I read from his face ¨C as I move towards the stairs. ?Tonight, dinner. No weaseling? I say, as I take the stairs and hold back a single, stupid tear. Ozyas¡¯ words, from when he found out about us, ring once again in my mind. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Hyos; just¡­ try not to get hurt. He was born here, he¡¯s not from the other side; are you sure he can really understand you?¡± No, old man, I¡¯m not sure. I¡¯m not fucking sure at all. As I walk mechanically down the stairs, I can feel it welling again within me. One of those sudden, mercurial mood swings that, doctors told me, are another symptom of my situation - a ¡®response to trauma¡¯ they called it, scheduled to disappear along with the headaches and short term memory difficulties. And yet, six months later, they are still there, stronger than ever. I¡¯ll need to talk to Ozyas about it, I admit to myself, and soon. I can¡¯t wait for it to get worse. I¡¯ll tell him everything ¨C the moods, the fear and apprehension for my future, the confusion, the distant echo that sometimes accompanies my mood swings and headaches. He¡¯s not like Xaver; he¡¯ll understand. For the moment, the only item I can unleash my righteous anger on is a plate full of food. The crowd on the way to the food hall has almost entirely settled down, switching the challenge from getting to the squat, wide room with a window sight on the grassy plains in the distance, to actually finding a place to sit down. Not for me, fortunately ¨C as soon as I enter the space, I see arms waving in my direction. I am currently the only non native of Zenobia residing at the Hospital, which I guess makes me sort of a mascot. Six months later, I¡¯m still not sure how I feel about it: in some of my worst moments, shut in my room bawling my eyes out, I have hoped for even just one person who is like me, who can truly understand the kind of isolation that even lovers like Xaver or mentors like Ozyas cannot fully grasp. But I¡¯m getting better, when it comes to living in the moment. I sit down next to the waving people, a trio of young women doing their medical training under Ozyas¡¯ supervision. I set my tray on the table: I filled it to the brim with as many readwave noodles in sauce as I could fit, accompanying them with white bread and a slice of cake large enough to count as a cake on its own. The three trainees eye me suspiciously as I attack the noodles with my fork. ?Is there something you and Xaver need to tell us?? says one of them, giggling. I refuse to retort, and spend the rest of my lunch stuffing my face and providing polite, occasional input into the three¡¯s conversation. They don¡¯t seem to mind, wrapped as they are with the end of their training and their imminent return to¡­ wherever they are from. Not the big city, maybe Etruria or something? whatever. I appreciate them wanting to make me feel included, but at the end of the day it¡¯s just another marker of how cut off I am from the rest of this new, strange world I happened into. Since I have no more classes for the day, maybe some exercise will clear my mind. I leave the trio to their yapping and make my way to the gymnasium. I fully realize it¡¯s not the best idea to exert one¡¯s body right after having eaten enough food for two but, hey, we are all allowed one poor choice here and there, right? I¡¯ve been told that the elevators used to work at full regimen for the whole day but that, since mana has become a precious commodity, starting last year Hospital staff is ¡®strongly encouraged¡¯ to use the stairs instead. I don¡¯t mind. I hop down the spiral and almost crash against a tall, well built man with a short, gray beard and spectacles. ?Oh, hey, Ozyas. Is the meeting over already?? ?Has been for a while. If you were looking for Xaver, he¡¯s up at the rookery again.? ?Not now? I say, rougher than I meant it to be. ?I need to put some exercise in.? Ozyas raises a brow, behind the wiry metal frame. ?Weren¡¯t you coming from the mess hall? I hope you¡¯re not thinking of exercising with a full stomach?? ?I¡¯m afraid I was, mommy.? He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, moving me aside to make room for busybodies descending the stairs in a hurry. ?Well, I have an even better idea. Why don¡¯t you come to my office, so we can have a little, long overdue talk? I also have some juicy news¡­assuming you¡¯re interested, of course.? I don¡¯t even try and resist, when he politely uses that single hand on my shoulder to turn me around and direct me out of the stairwell, as if I were a little kid. I must admit it¡¯s nice, to have at least one person who can see right through me.