I look down at the card in my hand, checking the address despite having it memorised for weeks now. Up at the seemingly abandoned warehouse that the map on my phone had led me to. The industrial park I'm standing in looks as deserted and run-down as the warehouse does and it sends a shiver of primal fear down my spine. Am I really here? Am I really doing this?
My entire life has been defined by the desire to run that flows through my veins, moving out and away from everyone I've ever known at eighteen years old, starting fresh in new towns every couple of years when the restlessness grows too strong, when too many people know my name, when people start asking pointless questions of where I'm from. I can't help this urge within me, but I've finally identified it as a need to be someone else entirely. Once I figured that out and started researching, the rest fell into my lap with suspicious ease.
Meeting up with 'John Smith', a name so generic it was clearly fake, being subjected to the weirdest and most vague interview of my entire life, only for him to leave with no contact details but a blank card with only an address- this address -printed on it. It all felt so surreal. The idea that I could leave my life behind without dying. It intrigued me enough to lead me here. So now, on the precipice of getting everything I feel that I've ever wanted, I hesitate. Once I step inside that building, there's no turning back. I'll be wiped off the face of the earth, nothing but a memory in the lives of every person I've met. Finally, truly free.
I step forward, slowly, again and again until I stand at the door, hand trembling above the door handle. The final obstacle in my way. My stomach churns with nerves but I know. I know myself far too well. I won't be turning back now. My backpack contains the last of my possessions, a couple of sets of clothing and a wash kit. I've shredded all forms of ID already, left behind in an empty apartment that no longer belongs to me. I have nothing left but this, nothing left to do but open the door that stands before me. I rest my hand on the handle, turn it, and push.
The inside of the warehouse looks just as derelict as the outside, and I'm not entirely sure what I expected. However, I can see a light on in an office further inside. I make my way towards it, footsteps echoing throughout the empty space, and before I'm even halfway across the large, empty room, the door to the office opens and the same man who interviewed me, John Smith, steps out. He smiles at the sight of me, but it looks empty on his generic features. He does not look surprised. He raises one hand and beckons me closer, going back into the office but leaving the door open, letting the light shine through like a beacon guiding me home.
I enter the room and close the door behind me. John Smith sits behind a desk, his face a blank mask and nothing on the desk in front of him. He gestures again, this time towards the empty chair opposite him. I take a seat and wait for him to say something. Instead, he opens a drawer and retrieves a small cup with a screw-cap lid, placing it in front of me on the desk.
"We need you to provide us with a urine sample before we can proceed," he says, voice as emotionless as his face.
"Why?" I ask.
"We need to ensure that you are of sound mind and that you have no mind-altering substances in your system." I nod, the reasoning makes sense to me. I pick up the cup and look around, and he speaks again before I can stand. "If you are looking for a bathroom, I assure you that there will be no need. If you desire it, I can look away, but I must insist that you remain in this room."
No chance of switching samples then, not as though I wanted to in the first place. "Alright." I stand and move to the corner of the room. If I miss the cup, I'd rather it not be directly where I'm sitting. My back to John Smith, I unzip my jeans and push them down just enough for me to squat over the cup semi-comfortably. After a couple of awkward seconds, the sound of my piss hitting the cup fills the silence of the room. My cheeks burn but I know that the quicker I can get this done, the sooner it'll be over. Peeking down at the cup, I watch it fill, stopping myself mid-stream when it's new contents near the top. I screw the white cap back onto the cup and let out a small sigh of relief. I didn't spill any. I pull my jeans back up and re-zip, turning back towards the desk and meeting John Smith's dispassionate gaze. I place the cup back on the desk and take my seat once more.
"Thank you," he says, taking the cup and standing. He walks to a little door in the middle of one of the otherwise bare walls and opens it. It's a dumbwaiter, I realise, as he closes the door and pushes a small button. He reclaims his seat and rests his hands, clasped together, on top of the desk. "This won't take long, but once we have the confirmation that you are sound of mind, we can proceed."
