Wilder

— Name and surname? It was her first question, asked in a calm and reassuring manner.

If I had to name the brightest and most vibrant thing in this space, it would be her—her hair blond as wheat. Her blue eyes and her thin-lipped mouth... However, a piercing proudly adorned one of her eyebrows, and her roots were black, as if she were hiding behind a mask. Her appearance contrasted with the atmosphere of the room with its grayish walls.

A radiator groaned at the back of the room, as though it were dying. A chair so creaky that even its owner seemed embarrassed by it. The floor, whose layer of dust rivaled the mold of the poor plant sitting on the desk. The only sign of the young woman's radiant presence was the organization of her work—it was obvious: papers and pens were arranged by color and importance.

Her eyes reflected the same color as those of my brothers and sisters: saints with soft and affectionate features but mean and wicked on the inside. She seemed superficial and hypocritical. Stereotypes cling easily to our lives, trapping our existences in boxes so that we may be accepted by society. Doubt gradually settled within me about the policewoman sitting just across from me, because "those who hide behind a mask often have something to hide."

— Miss? she brought me back to reality.

I raised my head toward her and apologized.

— Melody, Melody Wilder, I replied calmly, rubbing my arm slightly under the effect of the cold in the room and the embarrassment rising within me.

She typed my answer on her keyboard. I had promised myself not to make any waves, yet I still managed to get noticed in a country that wasn't even mine.

Name, surname, and age are often the first questions asked. They always do it, and it allows them to adjust to the person. The next tone will then be gentle for children and sharp for adults. I found that hypocritical.

So I easily guessed her next question and answered before the words could cross her lips.

— Nineteen, I replied nervously while staring at her keyboard.

She stopped and stared at me, then closed her mouth and typed in my answer. She placed her elbows on the table and interlaced her fingers before pointing at my hands, which, without my realizing it, were moving on their own as if I were typing on an imaginary keyboard.

— Are you nervous? she asked me.

I stopped the movement of my hands, grimacing. How irritating it is to be noticed like that. How could I possibly explain that I retreat into my head when a situation spirals out of control or becomes too intense for me? That place I call my "mind palace," which holds both memories and destruction at once.

— I'm fine, just stressed, I answered, twisting my fingers together.

I avoided her gaze as I do with everyone. The only thoughts that should have been flooding my mind were the last look my mother gave me, promising protection from the day I was born.

The look from my brothers and sisters who watched me like a stranger through the bus window.

And the look of that man whose repulsive and perverted appearance had pushed me to leave on my very first day of "work."

But no. What troubled my mind was a pair of emerald-green eyes. I knew he was watching me from behind the tinted window that furnished the poor room in which I found myself.

I'm sure that if that window suddenly disappeared, his piercing eyes could erase me on the spot. I dreaded that confrontation like the plague or cholera. But when the door opened and he strangely walked in, I quickly understood. Physically, he and his family were my saviors in this merciless world—but mentally, I could not accept it, because I was simply afraid that it would all start again.