A computer. A recording. Not a person. You slow down your breathing, close your eyes and attempt understanding. You can't. You can't: she is stating numbers, and words like anthropometric examination results, audiometry test, cardiovascular check, de- vitrification process. You don' know what they mean. This brings about another emotion: despair. A flash of understanding, despite everything: you are trapped inside some kind of metal tomb, with nothing but a blue light and a recorded voice speaking nonsense for company. This is not where you are supposed to be, this is not right. You are not supposed to be here. The absolute certainty of this weighs down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You sit stock still, the same thought bouncing around the void of your consciousness. The voice goes quiet. The light grows dimmer, slowly, almost imperceptibly. You blink into the descending darkness, still holding on to the plastic edges of your tub. You are not where you are supposed to be. You feel your muscles shake, at first subtly, then with increased force. Holding on is all you can do. Breathing is all you can do. You close your eyes again and try again, grabbing on to this tiny sliver of understanding. You are not where you are supposed to be. You must get out. If you do not get out, you will die. Then it hits you – the reason understanding will not come. You open your eyes again, gasping. Who am I?
