Eric Draven

The metallic sound of the lock wakes me. I open my eyes slowly, getting used to the cold white light filtering through the door window. The air is thick, laden with that mixture of disinfectant and something else, something I can't quite place but that's always there, a reminder of where I am.
I sit on the edge of the bed, letting my bare feet touch the icy floor. The pink uniform I'm wearing feels almost ironic, as if someone had decided that this color could soften the harshness of this place. I take a deep breath, trying to gather the energy to face another day like the last.
The camera in the corner of the room watches me, as always. I know there's no privacy here, but I don't care anymore. I stand up, stretching the tense muscles in my body. My height seems at odds with the small size of this room; everything here seems designed to make you feel small.
The guard passes by in the hallway, peering through the window. I raise my hand in an automatic, almost mechanical gesture, to let him know I'm awake. The door opens with a creak that echoes in the silence, and I step out into the hallway, joining the line of patients waiting for their turn for the morning checkup.
The protocol is always the same. I extend my arms while the nurse checks the sleeves of my uniform, then I turn around when instructed. It's a quick process, but no less humiliating. When they're finished, they gesture for me to move toward the dining room.
I walk down the long, gray hallways, my footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. Cameras follow me, and the guards are always close by, though they keep their distance. The dining room is at the end of the hall, a large space but just as cold and impersonal as the rest of the hospital.
I pick up my food tray, moving with the same automatic precision as everyone else. But just as I sit down at one of the tables, my gaze falls on a new patient