I remember growing up. Nothing specific, just bits and pieces. My favorite toys, that amazing race car bed, My mother giving me a hug, that sort of thing. But I couldn't tell you for the life of me where I grew up or who my mother was. I think her name might have started with a 'J', but, I can't be certain. Nothing on my father- he might not have been around.
I remember my last night there, too. It was one of those moonless nights where you cower in your sanctuary of light, windows and doors shut to keep the dark out. I'd just finished getting my blankets arranged just right. Two of them, both of their tags in the lower left by my feet, thicker on the top with the softer on the bottom. And that's the last thing I remember before now.
I remember that I was young. Not exactly a child, but no more than twelve. My arms were small, hairless, lightly tanned from my time playing outside. I remember nothing since then but, now, my arms are massive and foreign. Covered in hair, knotted, and pale beyond measure. I'm sure the rest of me is like that as well but all I can see is my arm and the stump where the other used to be. Well, it might be there still, but if it is I can't feel it. The whole area is covered in machinery, constantly moving, pumping, creaking. My other arm is visible, but I don't like to look at it. It's become grotesque and twisted from misuse, and the myriad of needles sprouting from it doesn't help. I must be quite a miserable thing to behold. Occasionally, I catch my reflection in the machinery, and I just have to wonder what they did with my face.