The guards whisper to each other, voices low and oily. As they turn to me, their hands drift to their weapons. Scanning my undressed body, they smile.
The cold tile welcomes my worn feet. The sensation ties me to this moment and this room: a slipknot I cannot slip through.
The guards scrutinize me, their burning gaze reminiscent of the coworkers, doctors, lovers of past lives. Can I trust you? their eyes all ask. What do you hide under that skin? I will not tell them, but I’ll let them search. I raise my arms to shoulder height, feet twelve inches apart. They nod.
Even trapped, my bones scare them, because even trapped, they are mine.
The guards do not know how to classify me, so they gift me a number: eight digits, one dash. They know not what drives me, so they hand me my uniform: one size fits all. They look away as I dress. I will not thank them for their courtesy.
In the hallway, an eight-digit number is called.
“That’s you, kid.”
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