They call me “Jane Doe.”
They say it’s because I won’t tell them my real name, that they were forced to allocate me a generic ID. The name is ironic, since there’s nothing generic about me.
But they don’t know that. They could have given me any name, but there’s a reason they chose “Jane Doe.” I hear the whispers. They think of me as little more than an unidentifiable, breathing corpse. That’s how they treat me. They prod, they poke, they badger and tweak. All of them want to coax a response from me. But their efforts are in vain.
Two years, six months, fourteen days, eleven hours and sixteen minutes. That’s how long I’ve been locked away from the world. That’s how long I’ve been pried for information, day in, day out. That’s how long I’ve been experimented on, hour after hour, week after week.
They don’t tell me much. It’s all confidential, highly classified. But they did give me the rundown when I first arrived. They prettied it up and wrapped a bow around their words, selling a dream and not the nightmare I’ve been living.
They said all the right things, lulling me into a false sense of
security. But it was all lies.
“Lengard is a secret government facility for extraordinary
people,” they told me. “It’s for people just like you.”
I believed them. That was my mistake.
I was stupid.
I know now that there isn’t anyone else in the world just like
I’m an anomaly.
I’m a monster.
My name is not “Jane Doe.” But that is who I’ve become.
And that is who I’ll remain. It’s safest this way.