Secret Society

You’ve heard of these groups - the secretive ones that only the crème de la crème are invited into, the ones outsiders speculate about for centuries - I’m the second in my family invited to attend, but to them, I’m fresh meat. New blood. New money, too. They think they’ll elbow past me, that I’m here for their amusement, for them to walk all over, they’ll find out soon enough that I’m not.

You’ve heard of these groups–the secretive ones that only the crème de la crème are invited into, the ones outsiders speculate about for centuries–I’m the second in my family invited to attend, but to them, I’m fresh meat. New blood. New money, too. They think they’ll elbow past me, that I’m here for their amusement, for them to walk all over, they’ll find out soon enough that I’m not. I may look like one of them, with my designer bags and clothes straight from the Parisian runways, but I’m not.

The first question the cops asked me was if anything out of the ordinary happened to me lately. When I woke up this morning in the room of a mental institution I couldn’t remember a thing - not my name nor how I got there. Not how I left or how I ended up in that interrogation room. The only thing I knew came from the contents inside my bag. A wallet, a student ID, a key that opened an unknown door, and two notebooks. They tell me my name. It matches my IDs. They tell me my story. I shut my eyes and try to piece it together, but can’t.

When someone tells you who you are, do you believe them? The first question the cops asked me was if anything out of the ordinary happened to me lately. When I woke up this morning in the room of a mental institution I couldn’t remember a thing – not my name nor how I got there. Not how I left or how I ended up in that interrogation room.