Aurum
Sunlight filtered through the expensive curtains in Samantha’s bedroom. At sixteen, her life revolved around the prestigious private school she attended, exclusive weekend parties, and endless arguments with her parents. Richard and Victoria Wilson, owners of a prominent law firm, had always been strict, but lately, the situation had become unbearable.
Samantha looked at herself in the mirror while brushing her long chestnut hair that cascaded down to the middle of her back. She combed it proudly every morning, aware that it was one of her most admired features. Always impeccable, always perfect. Her friends envied her for it, and Jason, her boyfriend of the past few months, constantly told her how much he loved running his fingers through those silky strands.
The previous evening had been the final trigger. Her parents had returned earlier than expected from a business trip, finding Samantha and Jason in a compromising situation in her own bedroom. The scandal was monumental. For Richard and Victoria, this wasn’t just teenage indiscretion but the culmination of months of rebellion: poor grades, late arrivals, constant lies.
“It’s already decided, Samantha,” her father declared during breakfast, without looking up from some papers he had brought with him. “You’ll leave on Monday for the Re-education Center for Young Ladies.”
Samantha nearly choked on her orange juice.
“What are you talking about? You can’t do that, I’m in the middle of the semester!”
“You should have thought about that before,” her mother intervened coldly. “We’ve been too permissive, and you need discipline. The center specializes in cases like yours.”
“Cases like mine? What do you mean?” asked Samantha, feeling panic beginning to take hold of her.
“Disobedient girls who need redirection,” her father responded, handing her a brochure printed on thick, expensive paper.
Samantha took it with trembling fingers. On the cover, a Victorian gray stone building rose imposingly against a cloudless sky. “Re-education Center for Young Ladies: Forging Responsible Futures” proclaimed the title in elegant golden letters. She quickly flipped through the pages, finding photographs of young women with serious expressions and identical uniforms, always accompanied by severe-looking women with excessively short hair.
“You can’t force me,” Samantha whispered, but the determination in her parents’ eyes told her that everything was already decided.
Monday arrived too soon. Samantha had barely had time to say goodbye to her friends, and Jason’s calls went unanswered when her parents confiscated her phone. The journey was long and silent. As they advanced along the highway, signs of civilization began to disappear, giving way to an increasingly desolate and rugged landscape. Finally, after several hours, the vehicle took a detour down a dirt road that seemed to get lost among arid hills.
“Where are we?” asked Samantha, breaking the heavy silence that reigned in the car.
“Almost there,” was the only response she got from her father.
As they crested a hill, the building appeared before them like an apparition from another era. It was much more imposing and ominous than in the brochure photographs. Gray stone walls several meters high surrounded what appeared to be a mix between a Victorian boarding school and a prison. Watchtowers rose at each corner, and Samantha could make out figures moving behind narrow windows.
The car stopped in front of an iron gate. A security guard approached, exchanged a few words with her father, and indicated they should proceed. The screech of the gate opening sent a shiver down Samantha’s spine.
“Please, don’t leave me here,” she begged, feeling tears starting to well up. “I promise to change, to be better, whatever you want.”
Her mother gave her a look that combined severity with something Samantha couldn’t identify. Guilt, perhaps? But it was fleeting, and her expression hardened again.
“It’s for your own good, Samantha.”
A reception committee awaited them at the main entrance: three identical-looking women in impeccable navy blue uniforms and a hairstyle that immediately caught Samantha’s attention. All three had extremely short hair, almost shaved at the temples and nape, with the top slightly longer and combed with a perfect side part, fixed with what seemed like an excessive amount of gel.
“Welcome to the Re-education Center for Young Ladies,” greeted the one who appeared to be the eldest of the three. “I am Director Jenkins. These are Supervisors Miller and Thompson.”
The next thirty minutes passed in an austere office where papers were signed and procedures discussed. Samantha barely listened, focused on the knot growing in her stomach. When the time came to say goodbye, her parents were surprisingly quick. A cold kiss on the cheek, a final warning-laden look, and they were gone.
“Now you’re under our guardianship, Samantha,” announced Director Jenkins once they were alone. “Your re-education process begins immediately.”
Supervisors Miller and Thompson flanked her and led her through long, dimly lit corridors. The walls, an institutional white, were decorated only with posters proclaiming slogans like “Discipline Builds Character” or “Obedience Is the Path to Freedom.” They didn’t encounter anyone during the tour, though Samantha thought she heard distant voices, muffled by the thick stone walls.
Finally, they reached a metal door that opened onto an inner courtyard. The sunlight, now at its zenith, was almost blinding after the gloom of the corridors. Samantha narrowed her eyes, trying to adapt to the change, and then she saw it: dozens of figures formed a circle in the middle of the courtyard. They were girls, or at least that’s what she assumed, all with completely shaved heads and wearing what looked like orange jumpsuits similar to those she’d seen in prison TV series.
In the center of the circle stood a solitary chair. A shiver ran down Samantha’s spine.
“What is this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Your initiation,” replied Supervisor Miller. “All young ladies go through it. It’s the first step toward your new life.”
Before she could protest, the supervisors pushed her toward the circle. The shaved-headed girls moved aside to let them pass, creating a human corridor that led to the chair. Samantha noticed their gazes: some reflected compassion, others indifference, and some, the ones that disturbed her most, showed a strange anticipation.
Once in the center, Director Jenkins took a megaphone handed to her by another supervisor.
“Ladies, today we receive a new companion,” she announced, her amplified voice resonating against the walls. “Samantha Wilson joins our institution to begin her re-education process. As you all know, the first step is to shed the shackles of vanity and rebellion.”
Samantha looked around, desperately seeking an escape route, but she was completely surrounded. Supervisor Thompson approached with scissors in hand, while Miller held what appeared to be an electric clipper.
“You can’t do this,” Samantha protested, backing away. “You have no right. My parents don’t know about this!”
Director Jenkins gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Your parents signed all the necessary consents, Samantha. They are perfectly aware of our methods.”
Two more supervisors, who until then had remained among the girls in the circle, stepped forward and grabbed Samantha by the arms. Despite her struggles, they forced her to sit in the chair. Leather straps appeared from nowhere, and in a matter of seconds, her wrists and ankles were firmly bound to the metal structure.
“It’s easier if you don’t resist,” one of them whispered in her ear.
Samantha felt panic taking over when Supervisor Miller approached with a metal bucket that she placed beside the chair. The smell of gasoline flooded her nostrils.
“Remove your clothes,” ordered the director.
“What? No!” exclaimed Samantha, uselessly pulling at the straps.
Without a word, the supervisors began to cut her clothes with sharp scissors. The garments fell to the ground in shreds until Samantha was completely exposed to the gaze of all present. Tears ran down her cheeks, mixed with sweat caused by the scorching sun and extreme shame.
Director Jenkins collected the remains of the clothing, threw them into the metal bucket, and poured more gasoline over them. With a theatrical gesture, she lit a match and let it drop. The flames rose instantly, consuming the last vestiges of Samantha’s previous life. The heat from the fire reached her, mingling with the cold of fear that froze her insides.
“Now,” said the director, gesturing toward Supervisor Thompson, “let’s move on to the next phase.”
Thompson approached from behind Samantha and, without warning, took a strand of her long chestnut hair. The first cut of the scissors produced a dry sound that resonated in Samantha’s ears like a gunshot. Her eyes widened as she watched the first lock fall to the ground, almost twelve inches of hair that she had cared for over the years.
“No, please,” she begged, as tears blurred her vision.
But the scissors continued their relentless work. Snip, snip, snip. Each cut was like a small death. Samantha felt the weight of her hair diminish as the locks fell around her, forming a chestnut blanket on the cement floor. Now her hair barely reached her nape, cut in an uneven and brutal manner.
Supervisor Miller then approached with the electric clipper, which came to life with a threatening buzz. Without ceremony, she applied it directly to Samantha’s forehead, creating a path of exposed skin from the hairline to the crown. The rest of her hair met the same fate in a matter of minutes.
Samantha felt the cold metal against her scalp, the tug when some strands resisted before being cut, and the strange and disturbing warm air of the courtyard caressing areas of her head that had never before been exposed. Her sobs had turned into silent crying, completely defeated by the humiliation.
But the ceremony was far from over. Once her head was completely shaved, Supervisor Miller changed the clipper’s head for a more precise one and began to shave off her eyebrows. Then came her arms, her legs. Every inch of her body was methodically stripped of hair, while the girls in the circle watched in silence, impassive witnesses to her desolation.
“Vanity is the enemy of discipline,” recited Director Jenkins during the process, like a mantra. “Uniformity is the first step toward redemption.”
When they finally finished, Samantha could barely recognize herself. Her reflection in a mirror they brought close showed a stranger: a perfectly shaved head, no eyebrows, vulnerable and alienated. Her features, which she had always considered delicate and feminine, now seemed exposed and raw, as if a mask had been torn away.
“Welcome to your new life,” declared the director, signaling the supervisors to untie her. “From now on, you will respond to the number 37, not your previous name.”
They gave her an orange jumpsuit identical to those of the other girls and forced her to put it on right there, still in the center of the circle. The rough fabric scratched against her freshly shaved skin, causing a constant pain and reminder of her new condition.
“Tomorrow the second phase of your transformation will begin,” announced the director before concluding the ceremony. “The supervisor will take you to your room. Rest, you’ll need it.”
The girls in the circle dispersed in silence, returning to their activities as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. For them, Samantha realized with horror, this was normal. How many ceremonies like this had they witnessed? How many had they experienced firsthand?
Her “room” turned out to be a cell measuring two by three meters, with a metal bed bolted to the floor, a sink, and a toilet without a lid or privacy. A small metal mirror slightly distorted her reflection, but not enough to hide the reality of her transformation. Samantha sat on the bed, repeatedly touching her bare head, unable to assimilate that the person in the mirror was her.
That night she didn’t sleep. The cold seeped through the walls, and the absence of her hair made her head lose heat quickly. She curled up under the thin blanket, trembling not only from the temperature but from fear of what would come the next day. The director had mentioned a “second phase.” What could be worse than this?
The answer came with the first light of dawn. Two supervisors entered her cell and escorted her, not to the courtyard, but to a section of the building she hadn’t seen before. They descended stairs that seemed to lead into the bowels of the earth, until they reached a metal door with a sign that read “Medical Unit.” The aseptic environment that greeted her contrasted dramatically with the rest of the institution. Modern equipment, bright lights, and staff in white coats gave the place the appearance of a high-tech hospital.
A middle-aged man in a white coat greeted her with a professional smile.
“Good morning, Number 37. I’m Dr. Parker. I’ll be supervising your hormonal treatment and surgical procedures.”
“Hormonal treatment?” stammered Samantha, feeling the ground opening beneath her feet. “Surgical procedures?”
“All patients go through the same protocol,” explained the doctor in a neutral tone, as if discussing the weather. “First, we initiate hormone therapy to prepare the body, and then we proceed with the necessary interventions.”
Samantha tried to flee, but the supervisors held her firmly. A nurse approached with a prepared syringe.
“This will help you relax,” she said, as she inserted the needle into her arm.
The effect was almost immediate. Her limbs became heavy, and her mind began to cloud. The voices around her became distant, as if coming from the end of a tunnel. They transferred her to a gurney, where they tied her down again with straps.
“The first phase of your transformation begins today,” she heard Dr. Parker say. “The testosterone will do wonders in a few weeks.”
The last thing Samantha saw before completely succumbing to sedation was the white ceiling sliding above her as they moved her to another room.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Samantha lost track of time. Every morning she received an injection, and every night she swallowed a cocktail of pills under the watchful eye of the supervisors. Her body began to change: her voice became deeper, her skin thicker, and an incipient facial hair began to appear on her chin and cheeks, though it was immediately shaved during her “hygiene” sessions.
Two months after her arrival, they took her back to the Medical Unit. This time there were no explanations. They completely sedated her, and when she woke up, she discovered with horror that her chest had been altered. The bandages and pain were sufficient evidence of the intervention. Dr. Parker spoke of “reduction” and “masculinization,” terms that floated in her semi-unconscious mind without forming coherent concepts.
The third operation, a month later, was the most extensive. Samantha remained sedated for days, drifting in and out of consciousness. Fragments of medical conversations reached her ears: “genital reconstruction,” “phalloplasty,” “satisfactory results.” When she finally regained lucidity, she understood the magnitude of what they had done to her. Her body no longer belonged to her; it had been remodeled according to the twisted vision of that institution.
Therapy sessions occupied a large part of her daily routine. Psychologists from the center worked to “readjust her identity,” as they called it. They addressed her exclusively with masculine pronouns, forced her to respond to a new name—Samuel—and any reference to her previous life was severely punished.
“Understand that this is for your own good,” Dr. Blake repeated during their sessions. “Your parents realized that your rebellion was a symptom of a deeper conflict. We’re helping you reconcile with your true nature.”
Samantha, or Samuel as she now had to identify herself, tried to resist at first. She refused to speak, to participate in activities, to respond to the new name. But the center had methods to break the strongest will: isolation, sensory deprivation, and a particularly effective technique they called “reflection,” which consisted of remaining motionless in front of a mirror for hours, contemplating her new appearance while a recording repeated affirmations about her “true identity.”
Little by little, the resistance eroded. The hair grew, not to its original length, of course, but to a conventional masculine cut, combed with the same perfect side part worn by the supervisors, as a constant reminder of who was in control. Her voice stabilized in a deeper register. The hormonal treatments continued, shaping her body day by day.
A year after her arrival, Director Jenkins summoned her to her office. Samantha—Samuel walked through the now-familiar corridors, aware that each step brought her closer to something decisive. She no longer dragged her feet as at the beginning; they had managed to change even her way of moving, adopting a posture and gait more in line with her imposed new identity.
“You have completed your program satisfactorily,” announced the director without preamble. “Your parents will come to pick you up tomorrow.”
Samuel (because she now only thought of herself by that name) nodded in silence. What remained of Samantha? A blurred memory, like an unfocused photograph that gradually fades away.
The return journey was as silent as the one a year ago. Her father drove, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror, as if to make sure that the stranger in the back seat was really his son. Her mother kept her gaze fixed on the road, her hands clutching her purse tightly.
“You look… good,” her father finally commented, breaking the silence when they were already approaching the house.
Samuel just nodded again. What could she say? That they had destroyed and rebuilt her? That every night she dreamed of fire consuming chestnut hair? That sometimes, on the border between wakefulness and sleep, she thought she heard the voice of a girl named Samantha, screaming from somewhere deep within her being?
“Your room is ready,” added her mother as they entered the house. “We’ve made some changes. We think you’ll like them.”
The room had indeed been transformed. Nothing remained of the previous decoration. The walls, once covered with band posters and photographs with friends, now displayed a somber navy blue. The bed, the desk, even the clothes in the closet, everything had been selected to reinforce the new identity.
Samuel sat on the bed, running his hand through his short hair, a gesture he had developed as a nervous tic. Through the window, he could see the garden where he used to sit reading for hours. He vaguely remembered a girl with long hair sitting under the oak tree, laughing while talking on the phone with friends whose names he could no longer recall.
A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it quickly, aware that this type of weakness would not be tolerated. The Center had taught him well.
His parents observed him from the doorway, with a mixture of satisfaction and something that might be interpreted as remorse, though Samuel no longer trusted his ability to read human emotions.
“Welcome home, son,” said his father, and closed the door, leaving him alone with his reflection in the closet mirror, a reflection that still seemed like a stranger to him, even after a year.
Outside, the sun was setting, tinting the sky an intense orange that painfully reminded him of the Center’s uniform. Many miles away, at that precise moment, another girl would be sitting in a chair in the middle of a courtyard, watching her hair fall as her identity was systematically erased, transformed, replaced.
And here he was, Samuel, formerly Samantha, a product of a system that had perfected the art of forced reconstruction. The last light of day extinguished, giving way to a darkness that perfectly reflected the emptiness he felt inside. An emptiness with the shape of a girl, with a woman’s name, with memories of a life that no longer belonged to him.
