Who Am I?

I am sat in a cold, dark room. I can't see anything. If I wave my hand in front of my face, I feel only the cold brush of air. I cannot see my fingers. The room is dirty, and it smells unpleasant.

I do not know how long I have been here. I cannot even remember coming here. I do not even remember my own name. There is a whisper in the back of my mind, "Hans". A word, but is it a memory or my imagination? I do not know. The men call me 74381609. That is a number.

I sit here all day and all night. Although, I do not know when these time periods pass. I do not know what the time is any more. They feed us. I suppose it must be two meals a day, so that is what I use to mark the passage of time. And one could hardly call them meals, anyway.

I have to find a way out of here. Wherever here is.

There are others, here, beside me. I hear them. I hear their screams. I hear them beg and plea, and it chills my heart.

I know why they scream. The men, our captors, sometimes take us out of our rooms—cells—and drag us to a big, white room with a table in the centre. They strap us down to said table, even if we struggle, they overwhelm us. And then there is the man in the white mask. The faceless horror. He stabs the syringes into our arms. I do not know what it is they inject into our bodies.

They torture us, forever screaming into our ears. They tell us that we deserve this. They tell us we are worthy of this treatment, and of nothing more. They tell us that we are simply animals. I am beginning to believe them. How could I be a man, if they treat me like this?

And I do not know any different. I do not remember who I am. When I catch a glimpse of myself, strapped to that table, in the metal opposite me, I see...I see a face that I do not recognise. A beard that, once upon a time, was probably tidy, but now is scrawny, unkempt and patchy in places. My eyes are dark and empty. I cannot recognise myself!

If I try to fight these men, then they beat me. They have beaten me so many times that I have lost count. I hate to let them win like this, something screams at me to make them stop, but they win every time, because there are just so many of them and only one of me.

I have to get out of here.

When I ask them why I am here, why I have been placed in this metal, white, sterile Hell, they hit me for speaking. I am not worthy enough to speak to them. So I swallow the blood the fills my mouth and do not talk. I will not let them hurt me.

I will find a way out of here.

My door slams open, and they are here again to take me to the table and the room and the man with the mask and the needle. The needle that, this time, steals me from reality completely, and I am unconscious.

And when I awake, I am back in my room. My cell. My home. But it seems lighter than normal. I can see my feet. I squint and frown, waiting for my head to stop spinning.

The door. The door...to my cell...is ajar. I stagger to my feet and walk unstably across to the door, as if in a dream. Maybe I am dreaming. This cannot be real...but when I push the door, it opens fully. I can see the corridor outside.

I have found an escape.

Despite the pain I venture into the corridor, holding onto the wall to keep my balance. I must stop, even though I am dizzy and disorientated, and I know that if I am caught, then I will be tortured and maybe killed. Perhaps that is a risk worth taking.

And yet, as I half crawl along the wall, at a pace that means I could not flee should I be spotted, I meet no-one. And then I see a sign that fills my heart—one word, one simple four-letter word. "Exit." The way out!

And I am through the door, and the cold, natural air fills my lungs, dispelling the artificial, tainted air I have been breathing. I stare out ahead of me, slightly concerned as to how I have managed to escape, yet I put it from my mind. There is a huge field before me, yet, on the horizon I can see a skyline. The skyline of a city. And I know that I must reach it, for if I can reach it, then I will be safe. I don't know where I will go, or what I will do, but I do not care—as long as I can get away from here.

Who knows, perhaps, in that city, I will find out who I am.

Thanks for reading please review.

There will be a sequel. A crossover between Die Hard and Law and Order SVU look for it.

Will be in Law and Order SVU stories NOT Crossover section.