The Pink Haired Boy.

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I was bored out of my mind. I fought not to show it on my face or my posture but, before I realised, I had slouched into my seat while I was playing with my dog tag. Of course, I wasn't alone in the boredom that overtook the whole focus in the room.

We were in yet another one of our monthly briefings which were taken by the medical wardens as ritual. We were in the usual meeting room as always. Room B073 wasn't your typical conference room, as rather than mahogany wooden walls, we were surrounded with white panels. No windows were in the room and, that left our light source from some flickering fluorescent lights above us.

The floor was carpeted in a wine colour which stretched the length of the room. There were no decorations in the room, that is if you didn't count the red framed clock that hung from the wall behind the head of the table, just above an ill treated projector screen.

Despite the rest of the rooms condition, the white and sterile feel of it all, the clock as well as the wall panelled screen was both outdated and cheap. It seemed to be neglected when it came it cleaning, unlike the rest of the spotless room, and the table didn't have a speck of dust nor the slightest hint of any stains. It was brand new, polished and, white.

My gaze once again flicked to the medic warden who was speaking in his hazy voice. He was rather shorter than most of the people in the room, and everybody knew for a fact that he was in his late 50's. Despite that fact, he looked as if he came back from an enjoyable day filled with sightseeing and discovering most beautiful and precious artifacts in the world. His voice was a clear contrast to his joyful looking face, he sounded as if he was forced to hold a conversation with someone he despised.

The whole fiasco of sitting in a padded chair for hours listening too a drone machine of a man was maddening. But, somehow, I knew, I could feel that it was the whole intention of these type of meetings, the whole intention of the facility by the looks of it. And, despite it all everyone knew. They knew that if someone were to fall asleep or speak or leave, there will be consequences.

My gaze flicked to stern woman who sat to his left, at the head of the table. Her eyes watched each and every person present in the room. Her name was Lady Lancet, at least that's what I thought her name was. Her expression was iron hard and, her gaze sharper than a blade. Wrinkles danced around her cheeks and eyes, signs of her stress and the years she'd been through. She was a very short lady, but she radiated a certain fury that made the atmosphere feel uneasy.

She had a straight brim hat on which, shadowed most of her face yet, didn't seem to hide it. Clad in a grey woollen coat that swallowed her completely, she sat with her elbows resting on the arm of the chair, her fingers touching at the tips, inside her black leather gloves.

I didn't realise I was staring at her until her gaze landed on me. Unsmiling, cold, ghastly. I immediately shifted my eyes downwards, not bothered to conceal a cold shiver as it ran down my spine. She did not pay much attention to me however, as I was bored and, there was nothing special about me. I looked like a regular American boy, save the droop of my eyes and the formation of my cheeks and lips.

I bought my dog tag up to my chin again as I caressed the words engraved into it long ago.

Dean Hunt
1996
WA

I know it told me who I was and where I was from, but I could barely remember myself. I could visualise a suburb on a hot blistering day, but any memories of anything else had been destroyed. Just like the memory of my parents. I was sure that I looked like my mother, but whenever I thought of her, it was as if looking through a thick bleary lense. All I could see, could picture was a suburb, some stupid trees, hedges a car or two. And,