I.

If I believed in God, I would be praying the single most important prayer of my life right now. I would say the words over and over, until they lost their meaning and then I'd say them again, so they would have meaning again. And then I'd repeat that cycle. Over and over. If a god existed, or cared to listen to me, this was what they would hear: I must remember who I am. I must remember who I am. Above all else, I must remember who I am.

But I must realize that this is reality and there is no God. And soon, with each day that these drugs take effect, they will take memories away, one by one, and I will become nothing. A blank slate. A fresh specimen for them to use however they want. I will become a slave.

I must remember who I am or forge for myself what I will be. Oh God, let me not be a tool. Not a fucking tool. Is this nirvana, then? I hear coughing in the cell next to me and I smell the pungent, ever-present stench of piss. The kind that permeates every inch of air and stains your skin yellow. It ferments your teeth and wilts your hair. Reddens your eyes and singes your nose. There were other smells, once. Other senses. Back when memories were made, not wiped clean. Hello. I'm here. The negative of yourself, waiting to be developed. And I will swallow you whole…

* * *

Lavender. Her dress was lavender. I watched her from the window, in my usual spot. I had a book on my lap. It wasn't a picture book either – it was a full chapter book, one of those mass market paperbacks with just a picture of the author on the back cover. I was really young then too – I learned to read at probably two or three, though I don't remember exactly how old. I had just always been able to read. At that moment, however, I was more interested with the woman outside in the lavender dress. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even more beautiful than my mum and I wouldn't have been ashamed to admit that. I was always an honest kid – I'd tell you right away what I thought of you, and I was immediately drawn to this lady for some strange reason. I felt like I had to run outside and get her to notice me before she walked away. I needed to get her attention right away; it was incredibly important that I did. I got up right away and pressed my nose to the window pane, the cloud of fog appearing below my nose. I hated when this happened and wiped it away immediately.

"Mummy," I yelled. "I want to go outside. Can I go outside today, please? It's not too hot or too cold, is it?" I yelled as loud as I could. There wasn't much time to lose. My mother came in, looking tired as she usually did. I didn't know why she was always tired, but it probably had to do with me. Kids are usually good at picking up things that their parents don't like about them. She was in bed a lot too. I usually entertained myself by reading or playing with my stuffed animals. There was no TV in my hosue.

"Salim?" she said. "Why are you being so loud? You'll scare the neighbors."

"Mummy!" I said again, frustrated that she didn't answer my question the first time. The woman would be leaving soon. "I want to go outside. Please?"

My mother frowned. I hated her face when she scowled at me. It was so ugly. "No Salim," she said. "You're allergic. You'll get a boo boo again and have to go to hospital. No, you have to stay inside and read your book ok?"

"No!" I screamed, making two tight fists with my hands and shaking in rage. I got sick a lot when I was little and didn't understand why. I just wanted to be outdoors and play; but I couldn't and this time, my "allergies" (which was what my mother told me I had; she never explained what they were. I seemed to be allergic to everything) were getting in the way of something I really wanted. "NO!" I yelled again. "I want outside – NOW!"

I cried and screamed while my mother tried to distract me with a toy or food, but I wasn't having it. I pulled at the doorknob with all my might, but my mother was able to pry me off easily. I kicked now, hitting her thighs with my bony heels. Even though I was only five, I knew that my heels would hurt if they hit her thighs. And they did. She turned me around and set me on the window seat, taking her hand and giving me a quick swat on my behind. That made me scream even louder; not because it hurt that much, but because I wanted her to feel guilty for hitting me.

Immediately after I did this, my mum jumped up from the window, startled at something. At first I thought it might have been my scream. But a second later I realized what it had actually been.

"Get your hands off that boy!" It was the woman in the lavender dress. Her face was suddenly inches away from the window. She glared at us both from outside and then knocked on the door. My mother looked terribly frightened. She looked to either side of her, as though waiting for someone else to come to the door to deal with the situation. But there was no one else in our house. My father died before I was born and none of my grandparents lived nearby. I didn't even meet any of them until after I was five years old.

The knocking persisted, and quite loudly, so my mother had no chance but to open the door. She took me by the wrist and started to guide me around her. I, still in a foul mood, resisted and as my mother opened the door, I was crying in protest with her hand on my wrist.

"Stop!" I heard the lady say in a very frightening tone. I looked up at her. She was even more beautiful, but now I was a little afraid of her. I thought maybe she was angry at me. But she was speaking to my mother.

"Unhand that child," she said.

My mum slunk back a bit, since she was significantly smaller than the British woman. But my mother was probably used to being pushed around, being the youngest of 6 children, so she didn't completely back down. "Who are you?" she said with her thick accent.

If the woman in lavender had a bad opinion of my mother when she had been glaring at us through the window, then she certainly despised her now. Her whole countenance darkened and she drew out a piece of paper from her purse. She then said something about how she had been looking for me, because I was her brother's son and that meant she was my aunt. I had never met any of my relatives prior to this, but even at such a young age I knew that this lady had to be lying. She looked nothing like me. My skin was browner than hers and I had dark hair. I had never thought much about what I looked like until I was compared so drastically to her. She had really light, shining hair, like the color of dandelions. She looked like one of the ladies in one of my books about King Arthur and the Round Table. I thought she must have been confused to think she was my auntie. She was very angry, after all.

However, my mum got very scared after the lady showed her the paper. When the woman left, mum cried all afternoon. I felt a little sorry about making such a fuss, but I was still curious about the lavender lady and hoped she might be back. She was just so pretty. I hoped the next time I would see her she wouldn't be so angry, and that we'd all get along and have some tea together or maybe dinner. Surely, the lavender woman would only want the best for me. Mother would understand. She was just startled.

A week later the men came and that was the last time I saw my mother. I was scared at first, but then the men told me that I was going to have a new mother and showed me a picture that had the lavender lady in it. Then I was excited. Perhaps she would give me lots of sweets and I would be able to have a trampoline like the kids across the street. I wanted to go over and jump on it, but mother yelled at me, saying it was dangerous and I would have to go to Hospital and the kids pointed their fingers and were laughing because I couldn't do something so simple like jump on a trampoline. I didn't understand it then; I just wanted to jump high like that. I tried on my own, but the ground was so hard. Plus, one time when I tried to jump from the kitchen counter, I sprained my ankle and mother got really upset with me. So I didn't try to jump high anymore in the house.

Suddenly, though, the lavender lady was like a second chance at everything. Perhaps then I would be able to go outside and play more. I didn't have any friends and it would be nice.

#

When I first got to the house I thought we must be in the wrong place. It was so huge, at least compared to my house. There were so many new things to explore! I loved stories about treasure and explorers – I wanted to grow up and explore Antartica, just because it seemed the furthest place away from England. But when I got inside, there were a lot of people talking about me in whispers and looking at me with curious eyes. I was told where I would be sleeping and what I was expected to do in order to get "good boy points" which would be on a chart above my bed. If I got 10 good boy points by the end of the week I would get a treat. But if I did a lot of bad things, I would have stuff taken away from me. They said this was so I would learn to be disciplined and take responsibility.

Those were big words for me and I just felt so nervous all of a sudden and right then I wanted my mother so bad. I asked why she wasn't going to live with me and when they said mummy was going to get a new job, I got so angry. I rolled up my hands into tiny fists of rage and screamed. I screamed and screamed, even when they left me alone in my new room. I knew they had to come back in. Mother always came back in. But they didn't. When my normal routine hadn't worked on my new family, it occurred to me, even then at such a young age, that everything was going to be different.

I was never going to go back to Mother. I was never going to wake up to the smell of sweet, exotic spices simmering on the stove. I wasn't going to be able to run into Mother's room at night when I had a bad dream, or when I was feeling ill. She never cared if it might get her sick as well. She always let me stay in her tiny bed with her that was surrounded by pillows she had made herself, bright and colorful, with embroidered designs on them. She made me one for my last birthday, when I turned 7. It was red with the outline of a tiger embroidered on with white thread. I would used to lay in bed, when I was too bored, but too tired to do anything, and run my fingers along the bumpy, zig-zagging thread and trace the outline of the tiger over, and over. I want to be like a tiger, I would think. Nothing would get in my way; I could jump, play and swim for as long as I wanted without getting sick. Without being weak. Someday, I would be strong.

But I looked around the room where I had been placed. My new home, supposedly. The walls were egg white with brown trim. My bed was comfortable, but plain. The bedspread was navy blue, and my three pillows were white. There was no embroidery on them. I rested my head down on one, grabbed another with my right arm and drew it close to my body. The fabric was stiff and shiny, which felt weird against my sweaty palms. I balled up my fist again and tucked it underneath the pillow. With eyes squeezed shut, the tears wedged out of the corners of my eyes and slopped down the side of my face, making pools of saltwater on either side of my ears. This was my new room, in my new big house, with my new lavender lady – my long lost auntie – but this was not my home. And I was not going to be any stronger.