Your Face (kandigurl) wrote,
Your Face
kandigurl

Story-ish thing

I've been in here for somewhere around 18 years or so. In all that time they've refused to admit that we are human beings, with thoughts and feelings. But the committee has been working day and night to stop that. They've ordered them to give us these journals. And even though I've never written a day before in my life, I have the memories. I don't understand them, and I don't think I ever will, but at least now I have an outlet for my feelings. I thought for a while that they crushed all the feeling out of me, but really, they did nothing of the sort...they only buried them for a while. It's all very confusing.

Anyway, they are also putting us with a room mate. My room mate's name is Cindy. She's extremely nice. Considering neither of us has ever talked to a single living person before in our whole lives except maybe under our breath, we actually had a lot to say. We mostly talked about our memories. She has them, too. It must be because of the way we are. I wish I could talk to some of the others. There's so much I want to learn. I have all these things in my head that don't make a whole lot of sense. Colors, images, faces, sounds...and they aren't mine, but in a way they are...hmmm, so much to think about, but they're only giving us ten minutes to write. This just isn't enough. The committee isn't allowed to monitor the time, so they're probably cutting it short. I don't know, because there aren't any clocks in this room. But there it is, our one minute warning. If I don't get back to work as soon as the alarm goes off, they'll dock my sleep time, or my dinner time. Or maybe I won't be allowed to write tomorrow. You never know what they'll do to us. Well, there's the alarm. Until tomorrow.

-- -- --

I did more talking with Cindy today. Her number is 29574. I'm impressed that she still knows hers, I've stopped using mine since the committe forced them to start calling us by our names. Well, not OUR names, but our former's names...mine was Sylvia. If I really wanted to know my number, I could just ask Cindy. It's branded on the back of my neck. I was too young to remember the pain. But the committee is making them stop branding babies, too. They've done so much good, and yet we're still here. They're working on that, though.
Sometimes when It's really late at night, I'll wake up. Not because I'm not tired anymore, but it's like there's this pounding in my head that won't let me sleep. And it's hard to focus on any one thing, so I go to the door and listen to the meter tick. It's so rhythmic and hypnotic, it's almost soothing. It lets my mind wander in to parts of my brain that I so often allow myself to forget. I've been trying very hard not to, though...I've been trying so hard to tap into what it is that makes me remember. It's frustrating, so very frustrating to know something I don't really know, or to hear something I've never really heard. Maybe I'll figure something out one day. But if I'm to be here my whole life, I don't really know. I don't know what is going to happen to me.

-- -- --

Today they told us that they are going to be reading our journals. I don't know what to do. Or say.

-- -- --

We have to write something.

-- -- --

I've found that I can easily tear pages out of my journal so that it looks like there are still some left...this is very VERY dangerous, though. I will have to keep them with me at all times, because if I don't, they'll be found for sure. I can't write what I'm truly thinking and let them read it. They'd do something to me that I know I wouldn't like. It's certain. What I really want to write about is what I remember. I'll write as much as I can. Time is short.
There's a woman. A tall woman with short blonde hair, but that's about all I can see of her. She comes in short bursts. I can't focus long enough to tell what color her eyes are, or the shape of her body, or anything. And then there's a house, I guess it's a normal house, because it's on a street with other similar houses. It's yellow. And then, I see me. I can see me in several stages of my life. I don't know what I look like, because we have no mirrors. I have never seen myself. In my memories I'm just a blur, hardly visible at all...but, I can't see much. I just know it's me. Who else could it be?
And there are feelings...
Tags: lame, writing
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