My tired eyes scan the blurring screen, the pictures I can’t fully see taunt me with a way that can only be described with two words: <******** Annoying. Other then that maddening feat to my rushing day, I can’t focus fully on this wretched document from the brain-sucking television that calls to me in words that say anything but ‘-------’.
Grim.
I have no name, of course; no identity to steal, and no face to understand. My identity has been flooded with a dreary mist, controlling my ever-empty mind to become like a cloud, beautifully pearly, white, and thin, almost empty. Every time I look around, I see unknown people entering my room, in and out, leaving me to wonder who these new doctors are to test on me, tell me I’m crazy. My hypothesis to the whole issue is that I’m not a bit of a nut, and everyone around me is just so bloodily transparent that they can’t even tell that they're full of it.
“Drink this last drink, the transparent poison in is wine-red, blending perfectly with your last mix.” I begin a line from a play, my mind playing a cassette of words for me, letting me hear the difficult lines. I have no upcoming play to speak, I just like memorizing lines from them, the beauty of them is more then skin deep, it has actual soul, and I can read straight from it, like bright red letters on a large alabaster wall.
I’m a teacher, and I can’t believe I’m there. I have no name, no college degree, and certainly no experience with children. My subject is alchemy, a wonderful drug that effects the mind, the rules of it are simply complex, gears in the books rotating firmly, with an excellent taste of bitter-sweet science to add. The laws in it are a complex string of words, studied and put to use, turning memories to dust, and the carbon-base of the word to gold.
The computer I’m on states a single word on the screen, and I read it out loud, saying it firmly and clearly to my deaf audience:
Y e l l o w .
I don't mind questions, but don't over ask, it's annoying and stressful.
