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Incognito
Prologue- Burn the Establishment
"It's your turn, Juliana."
I twirl a strand of hair, looking fascinated at the stains on the carpet below me.
"Juliana."
Twirl, twirl. Twelve sets of eyes are burning into me, imploring, annoyed, indifferent. I sink into my chair, seeping, becoming a part of its swirling blue. The eyes bleed red.
"Juliana."
Twirl, twirl. Twelve mouths are frowning at me, parched, dirty, empty. I close my eyes, welcoming the privacy the darkness allows. The mouths whisper angrily in the shadows.
"Juliana, it's your turn."
Who's turn?
I open my eyes, emerge from my chair, say defiantly, "My name's not Juliana."
An aggravated silence descends. Doctor John shifts in his chair, raises his eyebrows intrigued. "No?" He says. Weathered hands scribble furiously.
"No," I confirm.
"Then what is your name?"
The important thing in these situations is to remain in control. Doctor John thinks I'll be revealing something vital when I utter my name. He'll go into his office, look up the meaning, search my past. The name will be stripped, butchered and diagnosed. But I've got Doctor John under my thumb, because the point of his focus is clearly incorrect.
In this control, rapt attention rests on me. The clock freezes. Air particles still. No one breathes.
Alert the officials, the code is about to be cracked.
"Annika." Lean forward, engage yourself, don't pause. "Did I ever tell you how we escaped from
Doctor John shakes his head, no.
"Magic. But I had to sacrifice a finger in return. That's why I only have nine."
Doctor John frowns, says, "I see ten."
"You see nothing. There are only nine." Anorexic Jenny beside me sighs frustrated.
"You're such a fucking liar."
I spin on her, seethe, "And you're a fat fucking pig."
The room erupts; eyes widen, mouths shout blank words, Anorexic Jenny bursts into tears, Doctor John scribbles furiously.
I sit back and watch, chaos ensuing under my control. The door on the other end of the room looms mockingly, but I don't go to it because someone put glue on my chair and I'm stuck.
I don't mind though. Chaos is familiar, comforting. And being stuck isn't anything new.
I had this compact disc once, when I was younger, that was scratched. I cried for hours because it wouldn't play. Devastation was embedded in me because I thought the music on the disc had been a perfect complement to my life, because it was doomed to never play again.
I was wrong in my sorrow though. Tears shed for lost music should have fallen for the real complement to my life, for the scratches, spoiling the music into a redundant clutter.
This prison I'm locked in now is just one clutter of my scratched life.
How did I get here? I've been seized because the Doctor Johns of the world want to know what caused that scratch.
But they'll never know what only the past can tell.
The chaos around me melts into the background.
I think about the scratch that sent my life spiraling, that keeps me stuck, currently glued to the chair. I wonder, too, where it began.
So, with my control, I press stop, skip backwards and hit play, the fabricated beginning spinning into existence.
