“Hurry up,” comes the loud voice through the speaker above me.

I close my eyes to try and find some peace – anything resembling peace – but it never comes.

I turn, looking over my shoulder, right into the camera on the wall.  It stares back, lifeless.

Cold.

One day, I will know the truth.

One day, I will fight back.

One day, it will all make sense…again.

“Thirty seconds,” the voice says, impatient.

I reach my hand – or what used to be my hand – to the side of the mirror.  My metal finger presses the button on the wall, which starts to blink.  I take a step closer onto the round, painted circle on the floor, closing my eyes.  I think my eyes are real.  They told me they are real.

A tiny beeping begins and I feel the pinchers (what I call them) coming in around me, wrapping and covering, pulling and twisting, all at lightning speed.  I forget where I am for a moment, trying to remember the time I was not inhuman, when I did not need some type of skin to feel human.

Beep-beep.

I open my eyes and see me, or what’s supposed to be me.  Maybe the only reason I give in and don’t fight – why I let them do this to me day in and day out – is because it does help me feel real.  I know it’s not, but looks can be deceiving.

My looks also only last for the day.  Long enough to let them study and probe, prod and evaluate.  Then I am brought back here, de-skinned, powered down and rested for the night.  Do I even need rest?

“Time to go,” the voice calls.

One last look in the mirror and I know it’s only a matter time before I grow impatient.  Only a matter of time before I decide to make my own reality.