Peter. I am lying in bed, the silence surrounding me, and I can't remember the last time I saw a person not wearing a ski mask. Still, my mind can't help but formulate a picture of this mystery boy in my head. Just from talking to him, I know he has a kind, open face. His hair is probably brown, because that's the color hair I think a boy named Peter should have. I reach up to touch my own hair. It is cut to just above my shoulders, and is sort of soft, but mostly greasy.
I pull myself from under the sheet and pad over to the door, bending down so the faint light touches my body. I pull of strand of hair out and see it is lightly colored. There aren't any split ends or anything. I guess the people here keep us groomed while they do whatever they do when we're unconscious.
The thought send shivers down my spine, but I force it from my mind. I have to focus. On what? On Peter.
He is probably taller than me. I feel like most people are taller than me. The people in the masks are certainly taller than me. He probably has nice eyes, too. Friendly eyes. The eyes of the man who had taken my pulse flash before me. But I don't think Peter has those eyes. Maybe his are more brown, or green, or purple. Can people have purple eyes?
I dream of purple eyes and black masks as I shiver to sleep.