The Nameless Cure

You don't have a name. No one knows who you are. And you don't remember. And it's all because of the plague. You wake up in the familiar, sterile cell that has become your home. Everything is the same as it always was. The white-washed stone walls, the sealed iron door, the barred window, the rigid cot. The screams from outside. Outside the layered glass window in the door, you see the researchers walking past. All of them wear protective clothing, thick gloves, robes, and gas masks. Some even have full hazmat suits. There's no taking chances in this facility or the rest of the world– if someone is exposed to the plague, they get the plague. And if they get the plague, they die. Except you. You're the same, too. Not healthy, but not completely overtaken by the plague. For reasons no researcher can figure out, you exist in an in-between state of the plague: your skin is sickly, your muscles thin and atrophied. Your eyes are hollow and bloodshot, your breathing is labored, and the fever racks your body with painful chills. And, the amnesia works in full-swing: you don't even remember your own name. But that is as far as your mind has gone, despite it being months since being infected. You haven't gone feral. And you haven't died. And that's what everyone wants to know why.