Blank Slate

White. Everything is white.

My eyes are open, but my mind is foggy. I feel like I’d been drowned and spun around and have just come back to life, or reincarnated, or something else less than pleasant. The blankness around me is too bewildering, so I close my eyes again. The cool darkness behind my eyelids comforts me, and soon I’m calm enough to bear my surroundings again.

The one bright light over my head flickers slightly as I squint around me. I’m in a small, white, square room with only a white cot with a white pillow, which I’m lying on. I shift my head and notice that I’m wearing a soft white pants and a white short-sleeved shirt.

The only thing that isn’t white is me.

I stare for a moment at my dark skin, wondering what ethnicity I am. For several moments, I try to judge my skin color as if it belongs to a stranger. Then I stiffen.

How do I not know that?

My heart jumps as I rack my brain for anything. How can I not know my own heritage? That isn’t something you just...don’t know. I try to focus on some context clues. Who are my parents? What do they look like?

I have no idea.

A spark of panic slices through my stomach, and I suddenly sit up, too fast. The cot creaks beneath my weight as the dizziness in my head hazes my sight. I pull the air slowly between my gritted teeth until it fades, and lean against the white wall behind me. The cool surface makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

I have to think logically, I tell myself. I just woke up, so maybe I’m having momentary amnesia. That can happen sometimes, right? It’ll go away. It has to. Surely a doctor will be in soon to tell me what happened. Any second now.

But when I look around once more, I realize with a jolt that there is no door to this room. It’s just four smooth, white walls. No exit to be seen. No escape.

My breathing is less calm now.

I clench my fists, relax them, then tense again as I try to gain control over my raging thoughts. Where am I? How did I get into a room with no door? Why is everything white? Every question that my mind pulls up is met with a blank wall, it seems. There’s no click of my memory falling into place, no flood of understanding.

What’s my name?

Oh, Lord.

I’m shaking now, my fingernails digging into my hands so hard I think I might make myself bleed. I clamp my teeth together so tightly my jaw aches.

Name. Name. Everyone has one. What in blazes is mine?

I lurch to my feet, cringing as I stub a toe against the concrete floor in my haste. With my heart beating out a drum solo in my chest, I furiously pace back and forth between the cot and the farthest wall.

Adam. John. Gabe. Shawn. Tobias.

This is maddening. How can I not know my name or where I’m from?

Daniel. Jacob. Alex. Brian. Isaiah.

No. No. None of them are right.

No matter how hard I scour my mind, no name stands out. No memories emerge.

I don’t know who I am.

I claw at my temples, a pounding headache coming on from the anxiety. I can feel my panic merging into anger, at this room, at my brain, at whoever put me here, at my frenzied state.

This isn’t right! I deserve answers! I am a human being with rights and--

I have to hit something.

I slap one of the walls with an open hand and wince at the pain, all the while feeling my terror grow. Hitting the wall wasn’t enough, so I storm over the white floor to the white cot in this bloody white room, seize the pillow, and dash it on the floor. I lash out as hard as I can with my foot, launching the pillow into the wall.

Pain suddenly spreads in my toes, and I cry out in shock. The pillow had something hard inside of it.

What in blazes...?

I crouch down and claw at the fabric, yanking it from the pillow within, thinking that perhaps the object was simply tucked into the case. When the cushion falls to the floor with a heavy thud, I realize that the item in question is within it. Running my hands over the soft surface, I can feel a square shaped object inside.

With little hesitation, I grab the edges of the pillow and pull. The stitches are weak, and soon the seam tears apart, spilling the cotton filling over the floor.

My breathing is ragged as I fish the article out of the pillow. I turn it over in my hands, eyes widening as I realize that it’s a black notebook. Black. Not white.

Who’d think I’d be so, so grateful for a silly detail like that?

I flip open the plain cover frantically, desperate to know what could possibly be inside. On the first page, there is nothing but pure white. I grimace and flip to the second page, the sound of rustling paper and my harsh breathing echoing in the small room. This page is lined in pink, like school paper. It has a total of 18 words on it, printed neatly in blue ink. I bite my lip in anxiety as I read.

Your name is East Brookes. You are seventeen years old.

Escape this cell, and you will find answers.

My eyes pass over the page once, twice, three times more. My mind is still struggling to catch up with this small amount of information. I set down the notebook and blink frantically, trying to plug the knowledge into my mind, to make it personal.

My name, my identity, is written on this page.

My name is East Brookes. East, like the direction. I am seventeen. I am East.

How did I not know that?

The second half of the message somehow slips my mind as I mull over my identity, but then abruptly stabs me in the stomach. It says that if I can get out of this horrid white room, I’ll find answers. I can find out more about who I am. A flood of relief and excitement fills my chest, but the sensation doesn’t last long.

“How do I bloody escape?” I question aloud, glaring at the white around me. Suddenly, the notebook’s offer doesn’t feel like a life-saving option, but a cruel mockery of my helplessness. Of course I can’t get out. There is no door. There is no escape from here.

I won’t find answers.

With my heart twisting in my chest, I tear through the rest of the notebook, praying that there are more clues on how to get out of here. About who I am. About how I can find myself.

But the rest of the book is just more white pages. Everything, white.

With a groan of hopelessness, I fall on my back and close my eyes. At least here, with my eyelids shut, there is only darkness.

There is no way for me to escape this room. I don’t know what in blazes is going on, or who put the notebook in my pillow, or why I don’t know who I am. I have so many questions, and according to the stupid notebook, the only way to get answers is by doing the impossible.

I open my eyes again, and stare into the light in the ceiling. I feel so sick and tired. I wish that I had never woken up to this horrid room in the first place.

The square light above my head flickers again, but not like a normal light does. It’s as if a shadow passes across it, and then the light returns. Like clouds sliding over the sun.

Clouds.

My mind stutters to a stop as I focus on the light with fierce intensity. The rays coming down through the thin covering over it seem natural, like sunlight. When it flickers, it’s gradual and slow, starting from one side and moving to the other.

What if...

Unrealistic hope blooms in my chest, and I struggle to my feet. Grabbing the white cot, I haul it with a screech to the center of the room, directly below the light. I hesitate, then reach down into the remains of the pillow to grab the notebook. I stick the small object in the waistband of my pants, against my hip. Who knows when it could come in handy later?

I take a deep breath and climb onto the bed. The ceiling is relatively low, and the light is just within my grasp. As I snatch the flimsy paper covering with my fingertips, I can feel a small smile creeping onto my face. This has to work. It’s the only solution possible.

The paper easily rips away from the light, and my smile blossoms into a full grin. The joy at my discovery makes me want to dance, but instead, I get ready to climb.

I was right in my theory. The light was never mechanical at all, but instead, a skylight.

A window.

And with a shove of my palm, I realize that it’s unlocked.