A hundred thousand lives I've lived.
Or so they tell me.
I don't remember any of them.
For me, life does not exist beyond these four walls, painted a depressing grey – the colour of a raincloud welling up with all of humanity's sorrows.
It's chipping, cracking, falling apart at the edges.
Just like me.
There are heavy, woollen blankets spilling over my fragile legs.
Legs that once climbed mountains, crossed deserts, braved fire and winds. That's what they tell me
It all sounds so foreign.
They tell me my name is Laura.
But I don't want to know my name. I don't really care.
I want to know her name, though. The girl in the painting.
She watches over me.
There's something familiar about her face, but I don't know why. I don't even know my own face.
Why would I, when I don't remember who I am?
I don't know my name.
I used to. There was a time when I remembered, but it was years ago.
I know it started with an L.
Lauren? Lily? Liz?
I don't know where I am.
Where am I?
Who am I?
There's a woman screaming. I can hear her. There's a voice calling out for help.
Where is it coming from?
A shrill, terrified, earth-shattering voice.
I know that voice.