They have taken my name from me. They have taken my name from me.
I did not scream in fear when I arrived in a bumpy van a month ago. I did not scream when they beat me into submission and silence when I begged for the mother I do not have any longer. I did not scream when they locked me in a darkened room with the other new children as they sobbed and wept and clung to one another.
I did not cry when they fired a gun at my head to make me become obedient and afraid of them. I did not cry when my arm turned into lead after I had held it in the air for so long with the small, red butterfly resting on my wrist. I did not cry when they told me how I was worthless, unwanted, pathetic; a monster.
I did not scream; I did not cry.
I did not scream or cry, but that changed when they decided that I was to be numbered, nameless.
They then dragged me into a confining room where a metal table was filled with strange instruments that were foreign to me; behind it, sat a faceless man. They wrestled my hand away from me when I flat-out refused them and I trembled at they began their work. The monsters, I coined them, injected the black ink under my pale skin and a thousand needle pricks burned into my skin- but it is not the pain that makes me cry.
It is the shouting and the cursing, the two simple statements that they drilled into my head.
"You are 564; your name is 564."
They repeated it over and over and over and over; I repeated it over and over and over and over.
They forced me to forget what my real name was; they forced me to forget what my true heritage was. I am from nowhere; I am nothing. I could no longer cling onto the innocence that I know children are supposed to have.
And I screamed that I didn't want to go, that I didn't want to forget myself. I cried to deafened ears that I didn't want to lose my last shred of humanity.
But it was done.
And I was gone.
They are now leading me away from the small room and scarring machine, with one man in front of me and another positioned behind me, both guards are easily quadruple my size so I dare not speak against them. As I follow them down the corridors, I catch a glimpse of a young woman as she passes us. She stands tall and steady against three heavily armed men, all of them glaring angrily at her and I can only watch them prod her and mutter obscenities in a hope to keep her in check.
I notice that she seems very different when compared to the several people whom I have already seen in this orphanage. While everyone else is cowardly and desolate and fearful and abusive, she is strong, rebellious, independent. They must hate that; that is what they must be destroying now.
As the small group turns down an adjacent hallway, I immediately lose sight of them, but the image of her sticks with me. I promise she will not be forgotten- not by me, not by me.
We reach dormitories, where the strong acrid smell of drying blood and lingering sweat fills my nose; I gag slightly as I detect something akin to spoiled milk or rotting fruit hidden within the space. The sight is so much worse than the smell though.
Orphans, that I can only assume are people who have been here much longer than I, are scattered copiously across the tiled ground that is covered in a thin layer of dust, a heavy air of depression and hopelessness hanging above their resting heads like clouds. I glance backwards, jumping slightly as the door is slammed shut behind me, with the clear sound of a deadbolt lock clicking into place- an obvious attempt to show us we cannot escape the room now. Silence looms over the room, only disputed by an occasional heavy breath or light snore from one of the younger children, and I almost scoff at the illusion of peace.
I sigh as quietly as possible before returning my eyes to the forms of the other kids, and I make a mental note as a few heads lift to observe me, but none of them make a move to greet me. I take my first few steps closer to a small, empty spot in the very corner of the dormitory. Carefully, I navigate around their barely breathing frames, all of them looking as though a single gust of wind would crush their fragile to the ground, and my soft apologies of when I accidentally bump someone's arm or foot fall on unconscious or unconcerned persons. Their meager, battered bodies are huddled close together, finding whatever comfort they can on the tattered, dingy mattresses that are lined across the floor and every child clings tightly to the scratchy blankets they lay under- provided that they actually have one, as many of them only wear paper-thin jackets and pants.
I immediately want to make myself a promise, right here and right now, that I will never become like them, that I will help them all see the light at the end of the tunnel, that somehow I will fight through this all and remember that I once had a name... But the despair and the agony that is so damn evident in even the sleeping figures makes it hard to overlook or push my thoughts past. A fleeting thought of giving up crosses my mind in that instant.
I push it away when I see a child the same as me with a scar across her arm already- she was numbered only a few children before me.
For now, though, I stay quiet and take a seat gingerly on the cold ground, leaning my back against the far wall and pulling my knees to my chest for warmth. A few minutes of dreadful absentmindedness passes and I cannot seem to decide whether to lay down and sleep or reflect on my situation- I will not allow myself to cry; not now, not ever in front of these children; I will show them it is possible to survive.
I wonder at how often the thought of giving up will cross my mind in the coming years. I wonder at what kinds of injustice I will see and experience in my waking moments. I wonder how long my stomach will rumble and how far my health will decline.
"Hey," my head snaps to the side when I hear someone speak. A boy with shaggy brown hair and bright green eyes is sitting next to me, giving a sympathetic look to my shorts and light t-shirt. "Here, you can share with me." He offers me the edge of the blanket so I can take half of it, scooting to the opposite side so that I can join him on the deflated cushion he has seemed to claim. I hesitate at first, but necessity overcomes my wariness and my freezing hands gratefully grasp the edge of the fabric and pull it over my legs.
"Thanks," I whisper slowly, pressing my lips against my hands that are buried in the blanket in an attempt to warm them. I clear my throat, continuing to talk softly for no apparent reason other than for the sleeping children I do no know. "What's your name?"
As soon as I say it, I regret it. We no longer have names; we only have numbers. It must show on my face because the boy smiles sadly and holds out his right wrist for me to see. A twinkle of friendship appears in his eyes, "521... I wish I could say I remember something other than that, but it appears their-" he pauses and thinks for a moment, his vocabulary much higher than others our age, "brainwashing has worked."
I nod curtly, returning the simple gesture of extending my wrist to reveal my own black numbers. "I'm 564." The words taste funny on my tongue and I realize the name will take some getting used to.
521 speaks again. "I remember you being in the van with me when we arrived a month ago... You were the only one that didn't look scared for yourself- you looked scared for the others."
I shrug off his mysterious comment, instead focusing on trying to recall his face, but it is in vain and I give up after another moment. I change the subject, making small talk even though I abhor it. "Do you know how old are you?"
The dark-haired boy ponders my question for a second, lifting a careless shoulder. "I don't think it really matters anymore. I doubt this place is going to celebrate birthdays- even if they did, I don't know when mine is." He chuckles slightly.
"Me either," I whisper, averting my eyes from his so I can glance over the other children. "Have you met any of the other children here? Learn any of their... numbers or what it is like here? I know that I've been locked up in a dark room for the entirety of my time here, other than the past few days when they began renaming us."
521 frowns and shakes his head, watching the others as well. "No, in fact I arrived in here just before you did. After what happened in that room, I-" He stops himself; we are not to speak of it and who could know if they are listening in on us or who might turn us in for an extra scrap of bread.
All I know is that my initiation was much different than that of the orphans laying around me- for some reason, someone took a liking to me and my strength. But I wouldn't have called it that; it was much more a tact of survival I must have learned at a very young age- keep still, keep silent, that's how you keep living.
To me, it was more an act of cowardice.
Perhaps that is what they were truly looking for.
Those unwilling to fight back, those willing to obey without question.
I scratch at a stubborn itch on the side of my cheek, a girl who looks to be one of the oldest flipping over in her sleep. "Remember anything from before here?"
"Not really... But to say I don't remember anything would be an utter lie. Frankly, I will admit that everything up til now has faded into a mere... Haze."
I smirk slightly at him, once again surprised by his mastery of so many complex words- I only can grasp at the meaning of most of them, and that makes this boy intriguing. I instantly label him as a friend and an ally, someone I will be able to trust for my entire life here, even though it's based solely on his prowess of language.
I open my mouth to question him again on a trivial matter, but when I turn to look I see he has fallen asleep. I don't blame him; I haven't slept in a long while either.
For the first time tonight, I allow my eyes to close for longer than a second, the darkness enveloping me within moments. I give into the weight that pulls me from reality, a dreamless sleep giving me the rest I need.