Fragments of Electric Touch

[Day 1]

My name is Samantha Fisher.
I am 32 years old and grew up as an only child.
My mother was Rebecca Fisher, and my father was James Fisher.
I was married 4 years ago to my partner, Willow Hughes, who is the only family I currently have.
I was 173 cm tall, and weighed 65 kg.

This basic information helps me stay grounded every morning; it's an effective anchor for whenever I need to touch base, especially while staying at this facility. While there are folks who help me through my daily tasks, it still all seems very surreal to me, as if I'm dreaming all this.
Days pass by without leaving any significant marks in my mind, and everything seems to blur all together. Perhaps it's just me settling in this new environment.

I guess it has been a couple of days since I was brought to this facility. Memories of that day are still fuzzy to me. They told me what happened, but none of it seems to ring any bells. Still, the results are clear to me. Not a lot of folks were privileged enough to survive those types of accidents. And even in my current state, I'm glad to still be here.

Writing a diary is a new exercise I picked up today. They mention that keeping a log of sorts should help keep the days more interesting. Also, it's good material for looking into my state of mind. It does feel quite invasive, but there's not much to hide either way (or anything I can do about it)

Thankfully, it's not boring around here. I have access to almost every single book, movie, or music possible, and it would still be keeping me entertained even after a thousand years. Shame that I can't really share my feelings with anyone else significant. Perhaps that is what I will use my diary for. It feels long overdue.

Every night I turn in, I always think about Willow. I wonder how she is doing. I wonder if she thinks of me often. And I also fear what she will think of me now. I'd look at her with the same gaze I always have, but I wonder when she looks back at me, if she'd see the same. Perhaps that anxiety is what keeps me human, helping me to wake up the next day.

[Day 3]

The doctors told me that the diary is giving them good data, and encouraged me to do more. They also reminded me to touch base with my physical surroundings, to help acclimate to my new situation.

I can't really move much, and my vision feels limited. It's like I'm in a room with a single window into the outside world. Light grey walls with blue fluorescent lights bounce off the floor and shine into my eye. There's a low humming noise somewhere I can't see. I'm not sure if it is the ventilation system, or a sound emanating from myself. Not sure how I feel about the latter.

I have yet to see myself. They are still hesitant to bring in a mirror in fear of freaking me out. Something about easing me into it. And thinking back to what they told me, what they had to salvage out of me, it still fills me with dread. I try to calm myself by thinking how lucky I am to be here, which helps a bit. But I can't stop wondering, how much of me is even left?