why do you stay in prison when the door is wide open?

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There's something beautiful about the attic. The old wood, the dusty windows, the tangible feeling of suffocation. It's almost poetic. But it's the only place where the stiffness can't get to me. White walls, white furniture, so white it's almost like a hospital. Then again, the attic is the only place Jane won't go, which means I only have to deal with her when I leave my safe haven. I brush my fingers against the window, and watch as the dust collects in the air and slowly drifts to the ground.

To have the kind of freedom and ability to settle down anywhere is something I've never experienced. I look out the window, at the grass lawn, surrounded by a white picket fence. White. White. Everything is white. Except my attic.

My arm makes a beeping sound, and at almost the same time Jane calls up to me. "It's time for you to come down, Mary."

Mary. That's not even my real name. I don't have a real name.

I take careful steps, the soles of my bare feet resting against the cool surface of the wooden steps. And even more careful steps, where the stairs turn from wood to a surface I can only describe as white. Suddenly I wish I had my shoes. I wish a lot of things. Mostly that I had a real name.

Jane waits for me at the end of the hallway. The hallway lined with rooms with beds of iron and white tiled walls. "Come on, Mary," Jane rests her hand on the small of my back, moving me forward, "Let's go back to your room."

Back to my room. My room of white tiles and iron beds. Jane leads me in and nudges me towards the bed. She watches as I take off my bland white dress and change into an equally bland white nightgown. I sit on the bed. Jane looks satisfied as she closes the iron door. I hear the lock click.

I lay down and stare. Stare at the white ceiling that I wake up to every morning. A shrill scream interrupts my thoughts. I take three breaths. One. Two. Three. Jane said to do that every time I feel something strange in my chest. She called it grief.

The sound of Jane's footsteps pound in my ears as they fade away to the noise. I close my eyes, and instantly I am gone.

I wake up to the sound of nothing. I have obviously been asleep for shorter time than I am supposed to have been, so I wait. I wait for the beep of the microchip in my wrist that tells me when I have to get up. It also tells me when Jane is coming. She takes me where I need to go. Usually that is only to my room or the dining hall or the restroom and sometimes the attic.

I wonder briefly if the scream belongs to Michael. I decide not. I hope not. I know only that when someone screams they never scream again. That is why I never scream.

The high pitched sound of my beep comes not long before Jane is at my door. I hear her keys jangle as she unlocks my door. I sit at the end of my bed, staring as she walks in. She is wearing white. Like always. Like everything else.

"Good morning, Mary," Jane greets me, "Is there anything I should know about?"

I take a minute. "I felt something in my chest," I respond, listing my head, "I think it may have been grief."

Jane smiles, and it almost looks sad. "Did you breathe in and out three times?"

I nod. She puts her hand over mine and says, "Good girl."

What that is supposed to mean I am not sure. I did what she told me to do, but how does that make me good? I say nothing as I slide my nightgown off and slip into yesterday's clothes. I'm just pulling my arm into the dress when Jane says, "Stop."

I slowly take off the dress and stare uncomprehendingly at Jane. This isn't part of our routine.

As Jane turns to look at something beside her, I notice she brought a bag with her. From inside it she pulls out another dress. I breathe in slowly. It is another white dress. It is sleeveless, with a lace collar. Jane holds it out to me, and gingerly, I take it. The colour white. Why is it everywhere? With a sort of relief, I notice the collar is almost a cream colour.

I set down my white dress, and as I put on the new one, Jane explains. "You'll be needing this dress today. Do you know why?"

I shake my head. I don't know.

"Today someone is coming to live here."

I blink. I'm all but unfazed. Jane told me no one has ever come here since I got here. No visitors, no patients. That's who I am. A patient. Without a name.

The great white doors of the entrance open, and in steps a girl. I close my eyes, and open them again. She is beautiful. She has the darkest hair I have ever seen and her eyes are the palest grey I can imagine. She is beautiful.

She looks at me. And she walks towards me. "I'm Anna."

"I'm—" I realize I don't have a name. At least not a real one. "They call me Mary."

Anna looks puzzled, but doesn't have time to say anything else. A woman dressed like Jane takes Anna's arm and gently slides a needle into it. She tries to direct Anna to the hallway, but Anna pushes her. There is a feral look in Anna's eyes as she starts running to the door. I am taken away by Jane, but my awe isn't. Anna is different, I can tell. She fought with a broker, and that's strictly prohibited. I do not understand. Why fight a battle that cannot be won?

At dinner that evening I watch Anna, flanked by her broker, walk into the hall and sit down. She is two tables from me. I watch her eat ravenously, as if she hasn't had food in days. Anna catches me staring, and she winks. I notice the bandage wrapped around her wrist. So they had managed, in the end, to put in a microchip. I feel relieved. Not often is there conflict here, and it is good to know my routine will not be damaged by this inconvenience.

I glance again at Anna, and see that this time she is the one staring at me. I try for a wink, but end up blinking. Anna, clearly noticing, snorts out her food in what seems to be a laugh. Her broker drops something in Anna's cup, and motions for her to drink it.

Her water turns to the colour of milk. She drinks it, and I watch the red flush in her cheeks from before disappear. I look at my own water, which is transparent. I have never seen my water turn a different colour. I stare at Anna.

She is different. Her skin is a light brown colour. I look at my own arm, which is as pale as everything here. Anna is what Jane would call vulnerable. Jane would say she needs to be tamed.

I am in the attic again. Jane brought me up here this evening, earlier than usual. I know this because the microchip in my wrist comes with a kind of internal clock. It is currently 5:03 pm. Twenty-seven minutes earlier than the usual. I stare outside at the picket fence, which I cannot see beyond. I stare at the brokers walking in and out of this place.

It has been almost half an hour when I am startled by the sound of footsteps. I know it is not Jane because these are heavy footsteps. It must be Michael.

He smiles as he reaches the attic. The corners of my mouth unwillingly turn upwards. Michael is the only person in this place who doesn't make me feel unsettled. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his plain white trousers. He seems calm as his green eyes search my face, never leaving it. "Hello, Mary," He is polite, he always is. But I do not know what it is that stops me from approaching him.

An image of Anna flits across my vision. I frown. I look at Michael, his face frozen in a tight-lipped smile. He's tense. Anna.

I take another step forward and reach out. My hand trails down his pale arm and he takes out his pocketed hands just for me. My fingers slip into a tight grasp around his, and for a moment or two we stand there, able to pretend we are the only ones in the world. Able to pretend I have a name and we are connected and nowhere near this awful place and that Michael isn't a broker.

The moment is broken when Michael abruptly pulls his hand out of mine and coughs.

"Mary."

The way he says it makes my heart stir in a weird way. I'll have to ask Jane about it.

"We have to talk about Anna."

I smile. I like Anna. She is beautiful.

"You have to stay away from her."