1 Prologue

**This isn't chapter one. It is an intro to the story. At the end of the novel you will understand why I decided on adding a prologue**

Everything around me is white. There is no such thing as color in this place. From my shoes, to my clothes and even the walls, they are all white. There are no windows in here. Only fluorescent lights, that hurt your eyes even more than they should. I stare at the wall with only one thought in my mind, "Who am I?" For years, I've been asking myself the same question. And, every now and then my mind clears just enough for me to be able to answer it. Will today be one of those days? I don't know. It seems that I don't know anything anymore. Except that I just exist in this white space.

Suddenly, the door to my room opens. And, a woman wearing a white suit and white shoes is standing there. Her raven black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Constricting the muscles in her face. She had a heart shaped face with black eyes and a small mouth. She would've been considered a beauty, but her nose was too harsh for her face. Making her look only pretty. As she starts to walk in, I can see that she is carrying a journal and pen. Then, she stands in front of me and handed me the objects that were in her hand

I ask "What is this for?"

She responds "It is for you to write in. I thought you could use it to help you."

I ask, "Help me? Help me with what?"

She replies, "To occupy your time and to help you answer your question."

I froze. I couldn't speak. The only thing I could do was ask myself how she could possibly know of my question. As I was about to ask her, she turned around and walked out of my room. Leaving me once again to stare at white walls. I was still frozen in place and filled with fear and uncertainty. How could it be possible that some else knows of my question? I've never spoken of it to anyone. Could it be possible that I could have said it in my sleep, while they were watching me? I don't know. But, then again, does it even matter? I guess not. So, I decided to quit worrying about it.

Besides the white bed and bed sheets. I am allowed to have a calendar that is on the right wall of my room. Or as I call it, my cell. For I feel like a prisoner trapped in my mind and in my room. The last few shreds of my humanity and sanity I am able to keep solely because of that calendar and the white watch that I wear on my left wrist. They help me keep track of time, which is the only thing I have left. Time. It seems that it is my constant companion besides loneliness.

I get up from my bed and walk over to the wall that has my calendar on it. Against the wall, there is a large white desk and a chair. I set the journal and pen on the desk. I stare at the journal and pen for what seems like hours but I know that only a few minutes have passed by. As I continued to stare at the journal and pen I ask myself, "Why would I want to write anything down anyways?" So, I turn my back on the journal and pen and walk back to my bed. Then I sat down and stared at the white walls again.

As the hours went by, I kept on wondering about my question. Then I lifted my wrist to look at my watch and noticed that it was close to dinner time. Fifteen minutes passed by and the same woman that gave me the journal and pen walked into my room. In her hands she was holding a white try with my dinner on it. I didn't bother to ask her how she knew of my question. Since, I had determined that it wasn't important for me to find out. She put the tray on a small white desk at the foot of my bed. Then she moved the desk in front of me. After that, she handed me my medicine and a glass of water. She watched me take the medicine. As soon as she confirmed that I had swallowed the pills she left my room. On the tray I noticed that my dinner for tonight was a simple meat stew. I couldn't remember the last time I had anything else for dinner besides stew, soup, pastas and salads. I lifted the white spoon that was on the tray and dipped it into the stew. I ate quickly because I wanted to go to bed early. As soon as I finished my dinner, a tall man wearing the same white suit and shoes as the woman walked in. He had fiery red hair and brown eyes. His face was broad and he had an aquiline nose with a wide mouth.

He then asked me, "Have been able to answer your question ma'am?"

His question left me frozen. Again, I wondered how it was possible for someone else to know of my question.

I stood frozen for a few more seconds more before I answered him, "No, I haven't. And, besides, how do you know that I ask myself a question?"

He replied, "Everyone in this place knows that you ask yourself who you are. And, as sadly as it seems everyone here already knows the answer to that question, except yourself."

With frustration I reply, "Why should you or anyone else care that I ever figure out my question."

With a knowing smile he answers, "Because, you've done it before but only for moments. They never last and after they happen you never remember the answer. So we thought that by giving you the journal and pen you could write down the answer when you figured it out."

With a huff I respond, "If I ever figure it out, I'll make sure to ring a bell to let everyone know in this hell hole that I've done it. Then, like a good obedient person I'll write it down in this stupid journal."

As soon as I said that he only shook his head, picked up the tray and left my room.

A couple more minutes passed by. And, while they did I wondered how it could be possible that they knew of my question. The more I thought about it, the more frustrated that I grew. How could it be possible for everyone around me to know who I am and I don't? Who was I before I came here? Will I ever be clear minded again in order to remember? The more I thought about it the less certain I became. If I was confused about who I was before, that confusion has grown tenfold. My thoughts soon give me a headache and I let the arms of sleep wrap me up in a hug.

Hours later, I woke up with a sheet of sweat on my brow. I had been dreaming before I woke up. But, a miracle happened. I soon realized that my mind was clear. That those dreams that I was dreaming weren't dreams, but memories of my past life. I had remembered who I was before I came to this place. My dreams are what helped me remember. I frantically got out of bed and ran over to the large white desk. I sat at the white chair, picked up the pen and opened the journal. For the first time, in a long time my head was completely and utterly clear. With no other thoughts in my head except the memories of my past life. And so, I began to write.