In the White Room

I open my eyes and I’m in the White Room. It’s so blinding – in such stark contrast to the warm dark comfort of the insides of my eyelids – that it takes me several minutes to adjust.

My mind’s already racing. If it was so hard to change my name, how much harder will it be to change my face?

I’m not wondering long, when there is a break in the long white monotony of the wall – the door opening. He comes in carrying a jar filled with small round objects. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realize that they’re eyeballs.

Everything is answered when puts the jar on the table and asks me what color.

In the long moment that follows, the whitness of the White Room seems to seep inside of me, filling up all of the open crevices of my brain, making me think much too slowly. Everything feels heavy – even the air. I close my eyes and take a minute to breathe.

“Gree-” I start to say. But they know me too well for that. It’d be too obvious. “Brown.”

How the hell did I get here?

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