The face in the glass was a stranger’s. The face in the glass was my own.
I stared up at it, willing it to reveal itself to me. But it, like me, knew nothing. Nothing of who I was. Nothing of where I was. Nothing of how I got here.
Nothing of what “here” was.
All I knew of my world was this round room lit by round windows and filled with a scattering of round furnishings, all draped with the same coarse, unbleached floor-length cloth stamped with the same faded design: an eight-pointed star enclosed in a sunlike circlet. All I saw of the world I viewed through the round mirror suspended above my round bed. All I heard of the world was my breath, resonant against a pall of absolute stillness.
How my body ached. I couldn’t say why, only that each time I tried to sit up, I collapsed impotently back onto the bed. Time passed...or didn’t, as I lay motionless and bewildered, waiting for...for what?
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish