I lie in bed wrapped in my thin blanket with every thought in the universe inside my head. I can’t shut it out, no matter how hard I try. Every night is sleepless, endless, and a rousing fight for control. Tonight, the fiercest thought in my mind is from a sinister voice, one that almost sounds like mine. It is harsh as it grinds its words in my head, words my mind seems incapable of shredding.

‘You are nothing’ the thought says and then my name follows. ‘Hope.’

My name is not unique. It is not distinct yet still, the hair on my body stands as if that very thought came from me. Like the other thoughts, I can’t ignore it, so I wait to see if it continues on. It does, sounding more morose, the bitterness of it leaves a dissatisfying taste in my mouth that unsettles my stomach. If only I could silence my brain and find freedom from the burden the universe has given me.

‘You are nothing, Hope. It’s why you were cursed.’ The menacing voice mocks as it pushes another thought to the forefront of my mind.

My name is not unique. It’s a very ordinary name but yet again a reaction stirs from me. My breaths quicken like the seconds on a timer ready to ring.

“It’s not your thoughts, Hope,” I tell myself, my mouth a bit dry. “It never is.”

‘Hope. Hooope. Stop trying to ignore me, Hope! You know who I am!’

I shake my head but there is doubt in my voice. “I don’t! No, I don’t! Stay away, go away! Why won’t any of these thoughts go away?”

I unwrap myself from my sheet then put my hands up, touching the sides of my head and place my hands over my ears. It does nothing to stop the thoughts and why would it? The thoughts were from within, a playlist playing in my hostile mind. I had no control. No way out.

Nothing.

‘Yes, that’s it, Hope,” the voice inside my head says with malevolent glee.

This voice is mine. Desperate and vengeful. Gravely and weak. It’s like the scabs I pick off my body that come from the deep scratches I pretend aren’t there. It’s not the thoughts of the universe in my head but the words of others playing over and over. I’ve been in this bed for days. I haven’t spoken in months. On occasion, I get visitors and there is one visitor who is consistent. This visitor is the owner of the same methodical voice I’ve heard for as long as I can remember.

“No change, there’s never a change. Why haven’t we disposed of her yet?”

The voice came from the wall, the voices always came from the wall.

“We need a control for the experiment. She’s the only one born from that thing that lived. She’s valuable.” Another voice said.

“Valuable? The pathetic thing is cursed.” The methodical voice replies with an eerie laugh.

It is that voice that I think of as I lie to sleep. It is that voice that has stripped me of my own.

There is something wrong with my blood at least that is what the masked people with their long white coats say when they come to take vials and vials of it. It’s been some time since they have but sometimes I think my arm still looks a sickly celery shade of green that contrasts heavily with my pale golden brown skin. I used to sleep on a bed with metal bars on the side but a couple of years ago they gave me this room with a stiff bed that glues itself to my body whenever I lie in it. They used to make me walk around my old sterile room with machines attached to me and if the results were good I’d earn the right to drink water or eat.

My body has always been theirs to use. Even if I’m alone here, I’m not alone. I hear the sounds of them scratching words onto paper. They never told me what was wrong with my blood or why they hadn’t taken anything from me or experimented on my body in a while.

They gave me this device that plays music full of all these songs that I sometimes use to distract myself. I broke the device last week in a rage as I overheard them discuss me. I am losing my worth in their eyes, giving me numbered days.

The chills. The ones that make me wonder if I’ll wake up in an ice block are getting worse as they feed me less and less. Soon I will grow cold, and the thoughts in my head will numb but I don’t want an end.

I want control. I want this mind of mine to be mine and to finally feel as if a piece of me is my own.

‘You are nothing, Hope. No one even gave you a name. You are a thief who took that name from another!’

They did a test on me once where they read me a book and the character was a girl named Hope. Hope was scared but she knew how to be brave. I wanted to be like her so I borrowed her name, a name that still didn't feel fully mine.

I am not nothing. I will not wait to die. I will not let my mind torture me as these doctors have. With rage in my heart, I feel a heavy chill come over me but I fight against it. I raise myself out of bed, move off of it and stand. My legs are wobbly but I don’t let that deter me.

I’m fighting. My body is mine and I won’t let their words command my mind. As I fight against the chills, I notice something strange is happening to me. A pain worse than I’ve ever experienced bubbles in every part of my body like a geyser of bile demanding release. I scream as my body shifts downward but I’m determined to keep my frail legs standing.

Crack. It feels like when the masked doctors are holding me down and forcing my bones to break.

“They don’t feel pain,” they said as the cracking of my bones brightened their cold eyes with beaming delight.

It’s that methodical voice that said those words. His voice. It’s always his voice, analyzing my body, and destroying my mind.

The pain inside me changes, turning electric like when they shocked me over and over in one of their many tests. When that test was over, I earned a puzzle. A puzzle that they watched me do while holding a timer and if I were good enough then I’d earn a story. The stories they read to me never had a happy ending, someone always died and I could see in the methodical one’s eyes how they longed for me to acquire that same fate.

My body stretches, thinning and pulling itself in multiple directions. The pain in my body intensifies as I feel every one of my bones disintegrate, and turn me into a blob. I am glued to the floor, a vast puddle of agonizing pain then I’m touching the ceiling, a building of possibilities. My hands are claws then they are mine again. My legs are frail then they are as tall as mountains with feet ready to crush all that dare to approach. The room is broken then it is whole.

I hear a blazing noise, a siren that makes me wince. From behind the walls, I hear shuffling along with panicked manners of speech. They are afraid of what I’m becoming but I’m not. Not anymore. I stand tall breaking the ceiling with only one thought in my mind, a thought I roar with ferocious fury.

“This body is mine, I’m something, and I’m not cursed!”

I try to walk and feel my legs move on my command. The stiff bed I felt confined in is crushed under my foot. I lean downward, eyeing the wall that tortured me for years. For the first time, my brain is clear and full of thoughts from only me. I place my hand against the wall, the wall I always heard their voices come from. I put pressure on it and then push harder until I hear the satisfying sound of the wall crumbling. I see them, wearing their masks and white coats. They’re shivering in fear.

Finally, I’m in control.