I regained consciousness back on the bed in my cell. Reset. As if I had never fallen past the door. The only immediately obvious differences were internal. Before I was swept along on a tidal wave of emotion, drowning in feeling. This time I was numb. Experiencing a drought. But my hands started trembled uncontrollably as soon as I reached lucidity.

They are still jittery now, and I have slept a few times since. I never had a hope of tracking the passage of time, so I haven't even tried.

I can't bring myself to look at them. My fingers, my wrists, my arms. All of them traitors. So, I keep them cloistered in my sleeves, cuffs pulled down to conceal even my fingertips.

This way I'm not confronted with the continual reminder of what I did.

He'd managed to brand me.

Not long after I woke up, a plastic tray of food was pushed through the floor-level hatch. It didn't look like much. Dollops of blandly coloured puree. But it smelt fantastic. And I was hit by the realisation that I was starving. I pounced on it and practically vacuumed its contents into my mouth. I even picked up the tray and began licking out the compartments, revelling in the taste and satiation of my hunger.

That was when I noticed the scratch marks. Crisp, raised red lines crisscrossing my hands and running the length of my arms. From when he'd tried to fight me off. Each one a legacy to the failed attempt at self-preservation.

I didn't even realise he was doing it at the time.

I can't keep thinking about this. It leaves me feeling sick in a way that reaches deeper than my stomach.

I've spent a good amount of time begging for closure. Yelling at the people I now know stand vigil behind the door. I need to know what happened. Please tell me he's alright. Tell me I didn't—

But nobody ever responds.

When I'm not asleep, or blissfully (if briefly) distracted by eating inexplicably delicious slop in a way that keeps my hands firmly encased in calico, I spend my immeasurable time sobbing in the fetal position. When I get bored of that, I sit on the bed and stare at the white wall. I try to summon any memories. What did I do to end up here? Am I a bad man? Have I done something irredeemable? I often wonder if I'm in Hell. This usually results in more wailing.

But not right now.

Right now I have my back jammed against the head of my bed. My bed. I've laid in it long enough to consider it mine now.

Trying to distract myself with recollection isn't working. I think I may be hyperventilating.

The Button Presser just entered my room.

The door swung open and she strolled in as if it were the most mundane thing to do. Carrying a chair. Which she proceeded to set down in front of me. And then sit on.

My reaction was to freak out and curl up like a cornered animal. I would be embarrassed, but I'm genuinely terrified of where this might be heading.

The door is briskly closed. She is sealed in with me now.

One of us is probably a danger to the other. I'm an unstable amnesiac, capable of (please tell me I didn't) murder. But she has a calm demeanour, excellent posture, and a clipboard. Her hair is in an authoritatively severe bun. I'm at an obvious disadvantage.

'Eleven,' she declares, then says nothing else. She stares at me.

'What?' I croak out.

'Eleven, or Number Eleven, is your name. That is your designation and in all our interactions from now on I am to refer to you as such. Do you understand?'

Her words are stilted, as if rehearsed. I notice she has an earpiece.

'I—what?—are you-'

'Number Eleven,' she states insistently, cutting me off.

'…Yes?'

'Eleven is your name. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

She clicks her Biro pen, and in a graceful flourish makes an obvious checkmark near the top of the obscured paper on her clipboard.

'B-but-please,' I implore pathetically, 'what is my actual name? I don't remember-'

She glares at me. Then, with a sharp downwards jab of her pen, she strikes out the tick she had drawn. I have an inkling this conversation may be fruitless. But it is the first time I've talked to someone, and actually garnered a reply. And I need to know.

'The-that man that I—attacked. Is he okay?'

Stupid question. Of course he isn't okay. Just tell me that he might be okay. Eventually.

'Number Eleven. If you do not accept your designation, then this session cannot proceed.'

'Then call me Eleven!' I squawk, 'just tell me if there's a chance he could be okay-'

'Having established protocol in reference to your name, these sessions will only be conducted with myself as the questioner, and the instigator of topics of discussion. Your input will only be accepted in response to my questioning, and only if you adhere to the established topic-'

'Tell me I didn't fucking kill that man!' I shriek at her.

She blinks rapidly in retaliation to my sudden outburst. The distracted frown that flickers on her face makes me suspect that someone is giving her instructions through the earpiece.

Slowly and deliberately, she sets the clipboard down beside her chair, and folds her hands delicately on her lap.

Her voice is surprisingly gentle as she tells me, 'If you don't start complying then this session will have to end prematurely.'

I react like the grown man that I am: I burst into a fit of angry tears. I bury my face in my fists.

She indulges my breakdown for a few minutes.

'Would you believe me if I were to tell you that Doctor O'Keeffe, while somewhat traumatised, will, given some time, make a full recovery?' She asks.

I need a moment to compose myself. I gulp down air and try to steady my breathing.

I consider her question. Realisation dawns on me.

'I'd think that you were just saying it to make me feel better.'

'Then it is irrelevant,' she states softly, with finality.

I don't know what to say. She leans down and picks up the clipboard again.

'I'm afraid that you failed to meet the parameters required to conduct this meeting further. We cannot continue today. I will be returning tomorrow.'

She rises briskly and takes a few seconds to adjust first her skirts and then her updo. I watch her unceremoniously jam the pen she was writing with into her hair bun. Convenient.

I sit silent, staring at her as she preens.

She makes for the door. Before departing, she casts a look back at me. A bit too smug to be considered entirely professional.

'I suggest you practise being silent in the meantime. This will go better tomorrow if you try speaking only in response to my questions. Sleep well, Number Eleven.'

Then she is gone.

I continue to remain frozen and mute. Static in the position she left me. Staring at the now sealed door she vanished through.

Eventually, I start screaming profanities at it.