Personal Narrative: Van And Brown Bag

I don’t remember how I got here. There was a promise of money and shelter, a van and a brown paper bag. The van they transported me in smelled sour, the children they took before me must have pissed themselves. I think I was scared enough to.
I lie here in a bed with an IV in my arm. I know I’ve been drugged into compliance but it’s hard to shake the fog. I hear other children in the area beyond curtained off section of the room my bed is in. The curtains were once white with speckled with blue flowers but are now faded or stained to a yellow/brown polka dot. Every day at noon they come to wheel me down the hall to a sterile surgical room. In the room, they inject me with a fluorescent yellow substance. I scream and scream until my throat