Bulla opened her eyes to retina white lights. Nausea churned her stomach and acid bubbled up her throat. She leaned over the edge of her cot. She noticed the white tile below as her vomit splattered on top of it.

Where am I, she thought.

She forced herself to sit up. The cheap off-white sheets gave her bare feet rugburn. She ruffled the sheets with her hands in attempt to verify reality.

"A real bed?," she thought out loud.

Bulla's eyes shot up and a noise shut her mouth. It was a voice- a response. There stood a bald child with their knees pointing inward. Their voice was rattled with whistling static from her collar. Bulla thought the language sounded like excited whale songs punctuated with spastic shrieks.

"Um, stay over there, little boy," she guessed from his strong jaw. Bulla forced herself out of the other side of the bed. He was waist high to her, but his bare feet excitedly pattered the floor like a tickled toddler. Bulla hobbled away from him, circling round and round the bed.

"Stay back," she raised her voice despite his laughter. He paid no mind, following her like a confused duckling following a chicken instead of its mother. Bulla noticed his white billowy pants and ill-fitting shirt. They shared the same white garb. Bulla tugged at the itchy fabric bringing medical scrubs or old pajamas to mind. Fear streaked through her at the realization that they have removed her clothes. Shame and embarrassment covered her conscience. Her hands frantically scratched her bare scalp.

They shaved my head !, she thought.

Bulla scanned the room, seeing two floor mounted cots and a toilet bowel sticking out of the wall. The sink was fused into the tank on the back of the toilet. The front of the cell tapered to a clear door. She ignored the jabbering boy and tapped her knuckles on the hard door; it was like thick plexy glass. Deep groves and scratches were carved into its weathered surface. Her heart raced as she studied the barren cell. The boy tugged on her sleeve.

"Get away from me!," Bulla yelled, ripping her arm from his grasp.

The boy shrinked back. His hollowed cheeks were no longer dimpled with a wide smile. He backed away from her slowly, keeping his tearful pale eyes peeled on Bulla's feet. He plopped down onto his bed and rubbed his face dry.

Bulla puttered back to her side of the cell. She felt his curious eyes drilling into her back. She eased back into her bed, careful to face the wall. A long strip of gauze stretched down the length of her thigh. Bulla picked at the edges with her trimmed nails. Her fingertips were sore from being cut down to the skin. The adhesive gave way with gentle pressure, revealing a thick pink incision running all the way to her knee. The angry red flesh was clamped together with shiny blue-silver staples.

It looks like someone stapled a piece of bacon to my leg, she imagined.

She wondered if she would ever meet the surgeon who operated on her. The med techs words bounced around in her head, 'Who said I was a doctor.'

"Surgeon," she scoffed, "More like a butcher."

Anger evaporated from her heart and numbness manifested itself like condensation on a cold glass. It was tangible, but quiet. She could feel herself slipping away in little unnoticeable pieces, fleeing reality itself. Her resolve disintegrated as intrusive thoughts dominated her head.

I'm going to have to wear his fingertips for the rest of my life. I'll have to remember this place forever- Kalus forever, she thought.

Suddenly, sweat dappled her skin and the unmistakable funk of the crate she arrived in announced its presence. Kalus raked his hands down her face all over again. The huddle of red suits surrounded her, each having their turn. Her heart thumped in her chest like ball bearings in a dryer.

The boy's voice broke Bulla's trance. His big slate blue eyes peeped over the edge of the cot. He was more subdued, suppressing his eagerness for company.

"I'm sorry," Bulla sniffled and rubbed her face.

Although quieter and more evenly paced, his moaning like voice overstimulated her. Bulla took a deep breath, minding her own tone and vocal inflections. His upturned eyes seemed gracious to her, already forgetting her hatefulness. His long black lashes added an air or whimsy to his face.

"I can't understand a word you're saying," Bulla said.

The boy kept chattering. He brought his finger to the corner of his full lips, then pinched the lobe of his ear. Bulla stared at his ear while he continued to mime this motion. The helix of his ear ended in a sharp point rather than a rounded slope. Thin skin connected his earlobe and the point making a straight line from end to end. He swatted her curious hand away and spewed disgruntled gibberish.

"Sorry," Bulla said, "I've just never seen ears quite like."

The boy reached up and molded her ear with his fingers. She shook her head realizing it was foolish to expect any different. A new smile rounded the boy's apple cheeks.

"See," Bulla began, "We're a little different."

The boy giggled and the sound sifted through her being. Numbness was crowded out, served an eviction notice by something warm and pleasing to the heart. Bulla brought her hand to her chest.

"Bulla," she introduced herself.

She patted his collarbones with her fingertips and waited expectantly. The boy's eyes settled on her lips, but he remained quiet. His hands crept to her arm and hovered.

"Bulla," she said again, but he seemed reluctant to respond.

"Bul-lah," she sounded out slowly and carefully for him.

"Pew-braa?," he said in long drawn out syllables, mimicking the shapes of her mouth.

"No," she shook her head, "Bull-ah, Bull-ah, see, Bulla," she explained.

"Ooooh-," he mimicked," Oooh-tah," he yipped with excitement.

Bulla gently pushed his hand back to his chest and nodded.

"Ja-drew-da," he worked out, almost like he was auditioning for himself, "Drewda," he gave his final answer.

"Drewda?," Bulla repeated, pretending to understand with a pleasing grin.

Drewda said his name again and began motioning with his hands.

"Yeah," Bulla said cluelessly, going through the motions to spare his feeling.

A loud bang hushed Bulla, causing her to search for its source. The boy sealed his lips and turned his attention in the direction of Bulla's gaze. A maroon suit waited at their cell door with his fist propped against it. Drewda hopped off of Bulla's cot. He slinked over to his side of the cell, not making eye contact with the guard.

"Rations. Time for rations," The guard said as he shoved two paper wrapped packages through the slot in the door. He left in a wink, pushing the squeaky cart down the hall. Bulla shuddered as her mind chewed on his voice.

Was he one of them?, she tried to remember as her mind dabbled with the images of her disemboweled pet.

His face was useless to her. Her plagued memory was filled with a mixture of unzipped britches, flashes of skin, and a metal room painted red in the cat's blood. At least a dozen helmets watched. Each face shielded by a black visor- shielded from guilt and responsibility. Bulla shook the thoughts from her head and limped toward the dumped packages. Drewda snatched one from the floor and hastily unwrapped it. Bulla pulled away the flimsy wax paper, revealing a red rectangle block and a clear gelatinous round bulb. She watched Drewda scarf down his portions, leaving starchy red stains on his teeth. Bulla reluctantly sunk her teeth into the brick, ignoring the green stalky tidbits floating around. The texture was pasty and grainy. A mild sweet tang tickled her tongue. Granules of salt crunched beneath her grinding teeth. Bulla bit into the gelatinous ball, next. The gelatin substance left a bland, saline like residue on her tongue.