The moment the boy grabbed the man’s hand, the scenery around him changed almost in the blink of an eye—as if he had just been teleported.

Records told him nothing of teleportation being a viable technology—only in science fiction. But it was all so odd. First, he’d lived through what seemed like the cold flurries of winter, then he bumped heads with an invisible wall, and now, this—teleportation. All supposedly fictional, non-existent technology. Were his records wrong? Were they missing information? Misleading him? But the sun, the motel and pain, emotions… Those were all real, logical things. His records had told him so.

Then his stomach grumbled in response.

Stomach, he called out, please be quiet. He was trying to think, but it was all getting messed up. A solution to this simple issue would be to eat. Like those strawberry cakes. His mind wandered back to the holographic pastries, his lips salivating at the mere thought…

But then the man turned and stared, breaking him out of his daydream. His sharp eyes bored him down; a sense of fear crept up like small spiders crawling across his back. And then the looming figure spoke—

“Speak.”

That was the first word the viper-eyed man said after they’d arrived in this weird room of white. Like a hospital! his inner records told him. Am I sick?

“Look at me.” the man said.

Suddenly, the boy didn’t feel all that welcome.

The man’s face, however, immediately softened. He eyed him more carefully. “Can you speak?”

The boy opened his mouth, but nothing escaped. Those cold, razor-sharp eyes still stared him over like he wasn’t actually there. He could almost feel the air weighing heavily down on him, overbearingly pulling him to the floor…

He froze. It was all too much.

The man’s voice grew a little louder this time. More emotion, more aggression. The boy could hear the annoyance visibly growing. “Can you… speak?”

Goosebumps. He could feel it—the hairs on his arms stiffening up from all the attention. His lips were dry, hands clammy. No. Wet, drenched in sweat. The room was cold just like the morning he’d woken up.

“SPEAK!” The man’s face contorted into an emotion well-documented in his inner records—

Anger.

The boy immediately shuddered, and he started to breathe more heavily. His hands shivered more than when he was buried deep under layers of snow; his feet slid all the way back to the immovable wall behind him.

“Stop looking like a lost animal and speak.” The man pointed at himself. “To me. Speak.” Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A second later, he met the boy’s eyes once more. This time, the man almost looked sleepy. Or was it… sad? “Can you speak?” the man repeated. His somber eyes and brief smile mellowed the boy out just enough for him to say—

“I-I ca—”

“What am I doing?” the man interrupted. He shook his head. “Enough. Wait here.” In a sweeping motion, he left through the only door in the room. A soft click sounded right after it had closed.

After a long while, the boy finally breathed a sigh of relief. With wobbly legs released from all that intensity, he looked around more thoroughly this time. A white, cubical room enveloped his surroundings. There was a small table, toilet, a chair—nothing else. The walls were smooth as marble. There was a window, the only things visible being clouds. And as he ran his hand down the textureless surface, for a second, he thought he couldn’t breathe.

Was it fear that he’d just felt?

It was suffocating. Like he couldn’t move. Like he was still sprawled across the snow in his infantile body, arms flailing weakly by his side. He felt helpless. He felt stuck. In this big, empty, white…

He couldn’t stand it.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He ran up to the door, grabbed the handle, and turned, but it didn’t budge. And as soon as he’d thought of giving up, the door abruptly swung open. The viper-eyed man walked in with a tray in hand.

He scrambled away, hiding behind the table.

The man looked him down with eyes like daggers. He stood looming above, the metal platter shaking violently unlike his still figure. Liquid sloshed back and forth inside what looked to be a glass cup; it balanced itself precariously on top. Something else slid around next to it, but the boy couldn’t exactly make out what it was because of the height.

Then he saw the open door, and an urge bubbled up inside—he wanted to get out, squeeze past the man and run. He was fast; he could make it, but… he couldn’t move a muscle. His hands couldn’t stop trembling.

Was it fear? Had it already taken over?

No, he needed to escape. Distract him, he told himself. Stop shaking. Distract him. Then he’d make a run for it. “W-who are you?” he managed to squeak out.

“Who am I?” the man questioned in a deep but clear voice. He furrowed his brows as if thinking deeply.

Was that the wrong question to ask? No, it didn’t matter. Move! he told his body, but he couldn’t. Get up! He couldn’t get up. He kept trying, but nothing. He couldn’t break contact with the man’s intense gaze.

“Why do you ask?”

“I-I…” His palms were so sweaty; it kept slipping on his knees. “I—”

“Did you hear me?”

“I-I just…” he barely muttered out. “I don’t know…” The boy finally broke eye contact, but he instead stared at the floor. He’d given up; it was pointless. He wouldn’t make it anyway…

“Name,” the man said. He lowered the tray just enough to show…

Bread.

The boy reached for a slice; he was salivating all over again. But the man pulled the tray back out of reach. Then he repeated—

“Name.”

“N-name?”

“What is your name?” The man stared again, dead-eyed, expressionless. The boy couldn’t read his emotions.

“I-I don’t have—”

“Then make one.”

“Make… one?”

The man nodded.

Name? He never thought about having a name. And the mere thought of trying to name himself made him nervous.

“What is your name?”

“M-my name…” The boy looked at the man. Then the tray. Then he looked at the bread in his other hand. “I-I don’t—”

“Make one up.” The emphasis around the man’s words got stronger. “Anything. Make. It. Up.”

“W-what—” His eyes darted left and right. His mind raced up and down. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to say. What should he name himself? How did people come up with names anyway? Did they just make random noises and match it with random syllables? Should he do the same? “I… name—”

“Damn it, anything!” The tray shook more violently. “Give me a name!”

“W-wait—” His records! What did they say? Anything about making names? About what it was? Anything? What even was a name? Was it a title? Identity? “M-my name—” Bread… He was so hungry. He didn’t care about names. He just wanted that bread…

“Come on!” the man yelled.

“B-Bread!” he blurted out. “Bread. I want—I-I mean, my name’s… Bread…”

“Bread…?” The light in the man’s eyes died. Instead, a deafening silence filled the air. “Bread…” He dropped the tray; it clattered to the floor sounding like rogue gunshots. Glass shattered across the floor, water spilled everywhere, and the bread…

The boy watched as it fell—tumbling in the air, crumbs spraying across the room. Then it bounced. First off the floor, then into the puddle of water pooling in the center. And there, it stayed, soaking, glittering with the shards of broken glass. And it kept soaking, melting away, disappearing in front of his eyes. His bread…

A sound broke him out of his trance. And he heard something squeaking, crackling quietly above him. Like something was grinding, crunching…

He looked up.

The man’s teeth were bared, clenched so hard they were grinding against each other. His eyes were red, bloodshot. His nose wrinkled like the ball of fabric rolled up in the boy’s hands.

There it was again—anger.

“I-I’m sorry,” the boy stuttered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” He nervously pulled back, positioning the table between them, but his back hit the wall; there was nowhere else to go. “Please don’t hurt—”

“No.” The man raised his head. He stared up at the ceiling. “Perhaps this was all a degree too complex.” His emotionless gaze returned, and with it, his monotonous voice. “Are you human?”

Human? The boy tensely nodded, not completely understanding the abnormality of the question being asked. All that was on his mind was to minimize the danger in front of him.

“Good—good, alright.” The man sighed. “That’s enough for today.” And without missing a beat, he left. The door slammed shut soon after.

As numerous more goosebumps dotted his skin, the boy, now known as Bread, was absolutely, without question…

Terrified.