Jane

I hate tests. Useless, when you’re the only

kid in class. Why go to all the trouble to writing

it when you can simply ask me the damn question?

Like it would matter, I haven’t even been taught

this subject. How am I suppose to know all the

answers? I boycott it. It never works. All they do

is teach what the test was on and give another

test.


I sit in the middle of the room, the horrifyingly

plain boring room. The walls are painted gray and

the only color comes from the blue jeans I request

often. The teacher’s desk is a dark color either a

deep brown or black, it had a matching chair. The

woman sitting in it was number eleven. This one is

a little younger than what I’m used to, but equally

monotonous as the others. Her hair in a tight bun

and clothes to match the room. Her back was stiffer

than that of my chair. She has only ever smiled

once. That was when she first met me and wore a

bright beautiful dress. The next day she looked

like this. As if someone had taken her soul and

attached strings to the vacant shell. I call that

shell, Eleven.


Teachers have come and gone in my lonely life here.

I, only being fifteen, stopped learning their

names after number five. That’s when I realized I

was never leaving. I was nine years old. I knew

number five by the name of Mrs. Rose. She was the

nicest. Graying hair, round glasses, and a smile

that was infectious. She also wore her hair in a

bun and wore the same gray attire, but she smiled.

She had a soul and that soul begged me to call it

Rosey.


When she asked me what happened to my other

teachers, I told her they asked ‘The Question’, my

most hated adversary. She then asked, “What

question?” I was nine and so petrified that I

refused to see her for days. Not because she had

frightened me, but the fact that I was so young and

could easily let such information slip. I should

have just told her, then that would have made it

hurt less.


One day she just snapped. I had, in my innocence,

inquired “Can I go back to my room now?” She looked

down at me and, for the first time in two years,

she started crying. She kept saying how young I was

and how I shouldn’t be here. I knew she was coming

dangerously close to the question and I begged her

to stop, but she didn’t listen and I was forced to

handle another loss.


She yelled at the cameras, “Why is she here?”

Rosey, I never saw you again. I was immediately

taken away to my room. When she asked ’The

Question’, I started thinking the same thing. I was

terrified to ask, fearing my own disappearance. I

knew I was never leaving when I walked into this

gray room and saw n umber six.


So, here I sit, in my jeans and black shirt, taking

a test I don’t know the answers to. Back to the

beginning. Always a full circle.


I am required to use an hour to take a test. Even

after looking at a piece of my past, I have forty-

five minutes left. Each time I do this, I wonder

how I survived the intense boredom. Then I

remember. I infuriate my beloved teacher, Eleven.

She suggested this whole thing. I never had to take

a test before learning the material prior to her

getting here.


I like to see how many times I can tap my pencil

before she starts doing the ‘Big Bad Wolf’ act.

That’s when she huffs and puffs and demand that I

stop at once. I’ve been tapping away for quite a

while now, happily to say.


Tap, tap, tap, tap…

A sigh of frustration.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…

A warning glare.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

A large irritated huff. The point of no return.

Tap, tap…

“Stop!” She shrieks at me. Eleven stands and walks

the distance between us. Her heals click loudly on

the floor as she stepped in front of my

desk. “Jane, why do you do this every time you take

a test?” Eleven really wanted to know. Big

surprise.


I tell her, “It’s useless. Why test me on

something I have no idea about? Why do I take these

tests?” I started to lose control, “Why are my

teachers being replaced? Why are all the walls

gray? Why are you wearing gray?” Eleven looked at

in shock and tried to get me to calm down while I

started screaming, “Why aren’t there any children

here? Tell me!”


They entered the class. My government men.

I don’t know what else to call them. I don’t know

their names or what they really do. They wear black

suits and, sometimes, colorful ties. My favorite is

the balding middle-aged man, whose favorite tie was

one with blue lizard footprints printed on a green

background.


Forgive my behavior. I just snapped. I

don’t know what really happened, but I can assure

you I wont disappear like the others. If I do,

thank God. Then I will at least be freed of my

prison.


They each take one of my arms, the balding

one and the younger-looking one with dark glasses.

They don’t hurt me, I don’t think their allowed. I

sometimes struggle, that requires hitting and

scratching, and they take it. If I was in their

situation, I would’ve kicked my own ass.


I’m taken out of the room, more like I’m

dragged. I keep tripping whilst I thrash

about. I can tell, they struggle to restrain

themselves from hurting me in any way. White tiles

make the flooring of the corridor, gray walls look

alike as we make turns, and ashen ceiling tiles

would have mirrored the floor, if it wasn’t for the

fluorescent lighting coming from every seven tiles.


We, finally, come to a door, which is

colored a very dark blue. This is the only door I

have ever seen, other than the classroom’s, which

is red. I have assumed that either the other doors

were hidden or nonexistent.


Dark-glasses-guy somehow manages to open

the door with a key, you know, one of those sliding

cards? The lock gives us the green light and I’m

shoved into a bedroom. They close the door behind

me and I’m alone. The door is never really locked.

It keeps people out, but it doesn’t keep me in. I

can see why they would want me to get out if theirs

an emergency. Technically, I could walk out if I

wanted. I don’t because people are always guarding

the door and I’m afraid. Not of what’s outside, but

who. Who are they trying to keep out? So, with this

fear, I never open the door for anyone.


My room is very simple. The walls are such

a light blue that they almost look white under my

horribly bright light. My floor is also tiled, like

the hallway. I have a twin sized bed that covered

in royal blue linen. It sits against the farthest

wall in the corner. I have a small closet that

would be hard to find if you didn’t see it’s

shining gold knob. There are only clothes in there,

since I have no other possessions. In the opposite

corner of my bed is a small light wooded table

(complete with chair), for when they bring me my

meals.


Another blue door (right next to the almost

invisible closet), leads right to my bathroom. They

stock it with everything I need. Toilet tissue,

soap, shampoo, and certain feminine supplies fill

small cabinets, but what I need right now is the

mirror. It’s bolted right above my sink.


It’s strange, needing this mirror. This

reflective object is a recent addition, being only

a few months old. In the beginning, I couldn’t look

away. I felt the need to memorize every line, every

curve of every aspect of my uniqueness. Do all

children look like this? Dark brunette hair and

even darker brown eyes?


I quickly began to hate the questions this

was stirring in me. Am I pretty? Am I normal? Am I

the only one with dark brunette hair and even

darker brown eyes? Like I didn’t have enough

questions before. I covered it up about a month

ago. Haven’t seen myself since. In all that time,

I’ve often wondered if I could bring myself to gaze

again.


So, it’s strange, needing this mirror.

Pulling the towel away, I examine my expression. I

think this is what you

call ‘desperate’. ‘Desperate’ feels right. The

walls are closing in, I feel as if my shell is

collapsing on my soul. Falling, to destroy that I

only truly own.


I can’t allow my husk to be the only one

falling. With this mission, I ran my fist into the

mirror. Shattering, the ruins descend around my

arm, into the sink, and, finally, onto the floor.

There’s pain, but that’s okay, it’s going to be

over soon.


I pick up a serrated reflective remain.

Then, I glimpsed at the tender, sensitive flesh of

my left wrist. Hesitation, but then, at that very

moment of self doubt, the alarm commenced.


At first, I believe this alarm was for me.

I quickly began cleaning up the pieces, expecting

the rush of my government men through the door. No

one came. If the alarm wasn’t for me, then who? Who

else could there be? This must be shock. I’ve never

felt this. It’s hard to, when being lead a life of

almost constant reverberation.


I use the adrenaline to exit the bathroom

and out the door without any uncertainty. What I

saw was amazing.


Putting aside the fact that the corridor

was bathed in an eerie red glow, I could see him

perfectly. A boy, my age, standing outside of my

blue door. He watched me with the most flamboyant

blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They looked purple now,

in the red light, but I knew they had to be blue.

His hair looked cherry, but I distinguished it had

to be some light brown color.


I’ve never seen anyone my age before. I

could instantly tell the difference between the two

government men, who were nowhere to be seen, and

this adolescent. His skin was smoother and taut,

like mine. This boy was shorter and thinner, like

his creator didn’t find the time to fill him in.


He stared at me too. Those astonished wide

eyes. He didn’t say anything, so I did.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t believe there were any others.”

The boy replied. Not what I was expecting, but I

felt the same way. All those years alone, I assumed

that there were no other children. No one to keep

me company or to share those agonizingly boring

moments with.


“Your name.” I demanded softly. I needed to

know, franticly.


“John. Are you Jane?” John asked anxiously.

Almost as if he was afraid to insult or upset me.


I paused to think about how unfair this

was. He has heard about me, but I go years without

the smallest clue concerning anyone else.


“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you

angry.” He mistook my anger. I wanted to apologize,

but this is what I wanted. For me to be mad and

someone else finally acknowledging it and not just

throw me in a room to scream my frustration, only

for it to land on deaf ears.


So, instead, I said, “My name is Jane and I

want to get the hell out of here.” John smiled with

those crimson teeth, took my arm, and ran.


And so we went, course down the corridor,

like the blood flowing through our blue veins. The

rush of our breathing reminded me of the rush of

adrenaline now making itself known.


I don’t know when we started holding hands,

all I remember was feeling his heart beating and

wondering if he could feel mine. So much thinking

and, yet, none of it made any sense. Nothing

constant. Damn mirrors, God, I love lizards, Are

there jeans where I’m going?, I hate red, Is there

a world out there?, I love blue, I’ve never seen

grass, Are we going to make it?, Is there an exit?,

Damn mirrors, God, I love lizards, I love blue, I

love John. So it went.


We went down random identical hallways. Red

bleeding into more red. I felt as if I could run

forever. I could feel that invulnerability that

came along with the adrenaline, hitching a ride, as

if it had nowhere else it rather be.


Then, finally, a door appeared at the end

of our tunnel. Opening that door was like closing a

book after reading that final page and then looking

up and at long last noticing that there was a

brighter more beautiful world happening around you.

At last I could smell the grass, feel the

air, and, for the first time, see the cerulean sky.

I would have stopped and laid in that grass if we

weren’t running for our long awaited freedom.


I could hear them behind us. Yelling for us

to stop and come back. It was too late. We had

tasted liberty and we were addicted. Even if they

caught us, nothing could take this feeling away.


It was like closing a book after reading

that final page and then looking up and at long

last noticing that there was a brighter more

beautiful world happening around you. We did close

that book, the one they had given us, and started

our own. We escaped that day. John and I moved from

town to town, trying to put that lonely past behind

us. Both of us eventually found people to take us

in and, when they asked where we had been, we said

nothing. John never told me what they did to him

and I the same.


We never discovered what they wanted, nor

did we care. We were happy and all we wanted was to

truly feel that for the first time.