The first thing I remember feeling was that breathing hurt.
My chest burned every time it expanded, as if the air itself was too sharp.
I tried to endure the pain, but my body betrayed me. A thin wet cry that didn't feel like it belonged to me burst out of my throat.
"Uwaah! Uwaah!"
I opened my eyes. At least, I thought I did. Light bled in slowly, fractured and pale, as if filtered through water. Shapes moved beyond it. Tall. Blurred. Upright.
The burning eased just enough for my thoughts to return—fractured, fragile, but mine.
I tried to move my hands, but something shifted with it. The pressure changed.
They moved, but not the way I told them to—slow, drifting, and utterly useless.
As my hands scraped by a smooth concave surface I realized I was... contained.
Powerless.
Panic surged, and the sound returned. Louder this time.
Immediately, the shapes reacted.
"So, this one's awake."
A calm and murky voice reached me through the glass.
"Get him out,"
They lifted me out of the glass. Hands gloved and careful, like I might shatter. Still gasping for air, I wanted to cling to them—to cling anything really. Just to steady myself. Still, my body failed me.
They laid me down, wrapped tight, immobilized in softness, still grasping for some comfort.
And as I strained my eyes to endure the soft light of the room, I had my first thought;
'what the fu—'
thud.
My arms fell, stripped of their meager strength. And right after, I passed out.
Time passed differently after that.
Not in days or nights, but in routines.
Every part of my life followed a structure. Feeding came on schedule. Activities were timed by the second. Sleep came when the lights dimmed.
And as the days flew by, I came to understand even less.
Where was the woman I was meant to come from?
Why did the air feel different?
What happened to the sky?
Am I really on Earth?
For a time, I even began to wonder if the life I lived was just a dream because if it wasn't...
Why did existing feel so... wrong?
Then there were our caretakers.
They came in different builds.
I know, that's how humans are. But their diversity seemed to be much more than what a single place should have.
We were four years of age the first time we were scheduled to be exposed to more robust things and activities, they led us to a fresh new indoor playground filled with chairs and tables and settled us down. After a little while the automatic doors slid open with a hum and a short but robust figure entered the room, almost like a dwarf. But that was normal.
What threw me off was when I saw five similar figures prance through the door right after, holding huge boxes in their hands, it made me wonder if it came with the job description or maybe Santa was throwing an early Christmas celebration.
Some days, they brought objects, colors, sounds, or rhythms.
Their expressions never changed but that was probably because most of them were fully covered in white overalls.
It felt like they were searching for something in us.
Then there were some that were tall and lanky, almost reaching the 12-feet tall ceiling.
During our recreation time a screen would light up with age-appropriate content as various kinds of music and shows played, but I was busy taking glances at the corner of the room where the tall and lanky "caretakers" stood eerily still as they watched us through the lens of his suit the entire session.
I still feel a shiver down my spine whenever I remember those moments.
At least I wasn't alone.
Still, the world kept moving forward, indifferent to my inner turmoil.
Sometimes, when they thought we were too young to notice, they spoke among themselves.
"Him too?"
"Not yet."
"Still early."
"Watch the response."
Some were handled more gently. Held longer. Returned to their rooms with quiet satisfaction written into the adults' posture.
Others were… not.
One chamber beside mine was emptied and never refilled. No announcement followed. No pause. The routine simply adjusted around the absence.
As we grew older, the world widened—carefully.
Rooms replaced chambers. Floors replaced soft restraints. Movement became permitted, then encouraged, then measured. I stumbled, crawled, and walked. All under watchful eyes that never pretended not to be there.
They disciplined us, calling it training.
Games with rules. Exercises with objectives. Art sessions that ended the moment frustration appeared. Sports introduced not for fitness, but for response.
"How does he respond to failure?"
"Does he persist?"
"Redirect him."
Names existed, but they were assigned. Files followed us more faithfully than people. Sometimes I heard phrases drift through the halls:
"Donation batch."
"Clean intake."
"Low-risk origin."
I didn't understand them fully—but I understood enough.
I belonged to those above me.
The word "spark" reached me the way thunder does—distant, but unmistakable.
"Too early to tell."
"Exposure helps."
"Pressure can trigger it."
They spoke carefully when they used that word. Like it might listen back.
I did not know what a spark was.
Only that wanting the wrong thing seemed dangerous.
---
---
On my final evaluation day, they stood a little farther back than usual.
A multitude of objects grouped in pairs were placed before me and I was asked to choose the ones I liked.
But I hesitated.
In a lot of them.
And each time, they waited longer than necessary.
Eventually, someone marked my file.
It was then I realized that choosing wasn't the test.
"Next," they said.
And that was it.
That was my last chance to find a good "placement". Or whatever they meant by that.
That night, as the lights dimmed and the routines settled back into place, I stared at the ceiling—smooth, white, unquestioning.
Throughout all that no one ever told me where I came from.
But everyone seemed to know where I should be going.
I did not know what I was meant to become. Or if I was even meant to become anything.
I only knew this world expected something from me.
And whatever it was?
I would not be allowed to refuse.
Even if I learned what I wanted.