Witness

Once upon a time I was a princess.

No, not a real princess. But I was pampered and made to feel special. I was well educated, had servants. My servants had servants. I was allowed to focus on my work. Never had to think about where my food came from or how the house was kept clean. The mundane tasks in life were foreign to me. My life centered around assisting my father with his diplomatic work. I managed his correspondence, international travel and entertaining foreign dignitaries and their minions.

Once upon a time I was a hostess.

I thought nothing of throwing an intimate dinner party for twelve or an extravagant gala for five hundred at a moment's notice. I spoke five languages fluently, had a working knowledge of world economy and, was a fountain of trivia regarding rare wines.

The last party I organized was a modest dinner party for one hundred and twenty-five people. The guests gathered at six-thirty. Servants circulated discreetly with drinks and canapes. The cuisine was eclectic and international. Our chef served delicacies such as spicy mac'n cheese bites and smoked scorpions.

My father seemed preoccupied that evening, more so than usual. So, I made an extra effor to be the gracious hostess, making conversation and introductions. Dinner was pleasant, conversation varied, jokes and wine were plentiful. Though I was seated at the opposite end of the table, I could sense that my father remained tense. When I had asked him earlier if there was anything I could do to help, he had assured me that 'it was nothing'.

Few guests lingered after dinner, it being well past midnight. As was my habit, I directed the staff in their cleaning duties. Then I walked through the public rooms, making sure all stragglers had found their way home.

And finally, I stopped at my father's study, assuming he was relaxing there and wanting to wish him goodnight. The room was empty, but recently used, based on the brandy snifters an the lingering scent of cigar smoke. I noticed papers strewn across his desk. It was one of my duties to manage his correspondence and paperwork. Appalled at the mess, I crossed to his desk and started to stack the papers in preparation for filing. They were photographs.

I wasn't sure what I was seeing. They looked as if they had been taken at a costume party, but my father abhorred those. So, why was he standing amid a group of peole who seemed to have come straight from a Roswell fanatics convention?

I was still standing at his desk, looking from one photo to another, when the door opened. Assuming it was my father, I did not look up. "What are these, father?" I asked.

A gasp.

I looked up. My father and three gentlemen entered the study. My father looked scared; his hand was covering his mouth.

"Put those down, Anya." he said softly.

"But how shall I file them?" I asked, looking back at the photos before looking back at him. One of the gentlemen stood next to me. I didn't know how he could have reached me as fast as he had. His long, cold fingers cupped my chin, making me look into his red eyes. I heard my father make a whimpering sound.

How long

Was it yesterday

One or ten years ago

Time's slippery, yet stagnant.

Here I was, though I didn't know where here was. I wasn't sure how long I'd been here. Or how long I would stay here. Here had no daylight or night. Here had a permanent rose-colored ambient light, which glows from the smooth metal-like walls. Here had no corners.

My food came in a biodegradable bowl that dissolved within thirty minutes. I learned to eat what was given to me or let it drip to the floor to be washed away. I believed mind altering drugs were mixed into my food. It was the only explanation I could give for my dizziness, nausea and grossly distorted vision. Or why I sometimes felt weightless and other times heavy and stuck to the floor. And especially, why I didn't feel terror, fear or even disquiet.

Who am I

What do I know

That scares them so

Who are they slowly erasing

Why should I need to be forgotten

No one had spoken to me since I woke up in this disorienting bubble. Nor had I seen anyone. Yet unseen voices told me who I am, over and over. They told me that my name is Veronica Simmons, from Mason, Ohio. My parents are deceased. My father, Barnaby Simmons was a carpenter. My mother, Petra a housewife. I have no siblings and am a librarian at Xavier University.

No. This is not true. I know my name is Anya Palmer. My father is Godfrey Palmer, ambassador to the European Union. We live in Brussels.

Iterations

Echo of echoes

My control is slipping

Walls whisper and shout

Yet my protests go unheeded

Questions and pleas unanswered.

I felt the effects of higher doses of whatever drugs they gave me. My words were slurred; dizziness and sleep kept me pinned to my bench for days.

What is your name? Your name is Veronica Simmons ....

I was sure my name is Anya Palmer, my father Godfrey Palmer. We lived in Brussels.

Didn't we?

The dose was upped again. I felt sick when not asleep.

What is your name? Your name is Veronica Simmons. What ....

I could have sworn my name is Anya Palmer and my father is Godfrey Palmer. I know I've been to Brussels. That's in Belgium, right?

I think

I am learning

My thoughts are clearer

Submit and recite new reason

I learn to keep my thoughts private

I repeat the mantra coming from the walls

What is my name? My name is Veronica Simmons.

I tested my captors and asked why the name Anya was so familiar? Did I know someone by that name? I remained silent but felt anxious and fearful when I thought about the pictures I had seen. Apparently, the spike in my anxiety had been noted. Again, a higher dose of medication. Again, I slept, greedily ate and slept again.

What is your name? My name is Veronica Simmons. What is your name? My name ....

I told them that I my name is Veronica Simmons. I am a librarian at the Xavier University library. I recited my history; where I went to high school, my part-time jobs, the few vacations I took with my parents.

My food still made me sleepy, but less so. I told whoever was listening that I was eager and ready to return to my job at the library and my small but cozy condo, where I have a few pictures of my parents and reproductions of famous art on the walls.

^*^*^

My work keeps me mostly at the reference desk. I have a few acquaintances but no close friends. I like it that way, I've been told. But ...

Patrice asks me to cover for her at the circulation desk while she keeps a dental appointment. I don't mind dealing with the students. I rarely look at them, they rarely look at me. Their ears are stuffed with buds. They live in their own world.

A hand across the desk holds a card. Godfrey Palmer.

My heart slams in my chest. My body freezes. I stare at the card.

"Anya?" my father whispers.