My reflection is going to kill me.

Why she wants to do this, I don't know.

I could make up some reasoning for her behaviour, such as that she is angry at being under my control and is beckoned to the mirror every time I go to look at myself; the fact she has no freedom and just waits patiently, following me around and striking a similar pose to me in every reflective surface.

This is what reflections do though...right? That's their job.

I don't know anyone else who has a problem with it, yet she’s decided that it's something she just didn't want to do anymore.

I first noticed that she was different a month ago when I brushing my teeth. Not being fully awake at the time it took me a few moments to realise something was out of place, and what started as a feeling of discomfort that 'something wasn't right' suddenly turned into panic as I saw myself in the mirror. She was standing there, like I was, in her pyjamas holding a blue toothbrush, but she wasn't copying me anymore. I raised a glass of water to my mouth to rinse and she just stood there, her eyes piercing into me.

A look of loathing from a trapped animal.

Assuming I was dreaming I bent over the sink to splash water on my face, making sure to look at the mirror carefully as I straightened up.

Everything seemed normal.

I raised my right hand - she copied me.

I quickly punched the air with my left hand, attempting to catch her out - she copied me.

I leant in to the mirror - she copied me.

And then she smiled at me - our faces inches apart.

She raised her hand to her throat and made a cutting motion with her finger, and then she simply ran away. I was left staring at the reflection of the bathroom in the mirror, and I couldn't see her, me, anywhere.

After that I smashed all mirrors in the house. My parents thought I was insane and I shouted hysterically when they bought replacement mirrors before smashing them too. Catching occasional glimpses of my reflection in cutlery, glasses, the television or any of the countless other reflective surfaces in our house always frightened me.

She was everywhere I was - waiting.

Ever since that first day in the bathroom I’ve been having nightmares. I'm in one of those 'hall of mirrors' you see at funfairs. There I am alone, trying to escape, and she is running from mirror to mirror. Sometimes acting like normal reflections do, other times just mocking me, or slamming herself into the glass. I often break some of the mirrors in my sleep but that leaves shards of broken mirror everywhere, and thousands of her staring back at me.

I was committed earlier today.

I can't blame my parents really. If my only daughter started smashing up the house saying that her reflection was going to kill her then I would probably seek help too.

It’s the worst thing that could have happened to me though.

She can get me now.

They threw me into this 'observation' room when I arrived. There's a small bed, a chair, nothing special. One wall has a huge mirror and I stood facing her. She bent over, blew into my face, and I could smell the rancid breath of a reflection that has refused to clean her teeth for a month. She smiled her evil smile, and a tear rolled down my cheek as we both realised what it meant to be in a room with a double-sided mirror.

I tried breaking it, slamming the chair against the glass with all of my might, but they just gave me an injection to calm me; obviously they think I’m crazy.

They're watching me from behind the mirror.

So is she.

Everyone’s just standing there. Watching. Waiting.

I feel the drugs taking effect, my limbs are numbing and I can hardly move.

"You're killing yourself" I plead to her as she steps out of the mirror and walks toward me.

As she stands over me I see my reflection how it should be, how I haven't seen it for a while now.

A normal girl.

Someone kind, caring, beautiful.

A girl who is no longer trapped.

She catches my reflection too as she raises the knife. I think I see a glimmer of doubt on her face as she looks into the eyes of the girl on the blade but she turns back to me with an even more determined expression.

As she towers over me I see something in her, myself, that I haven't seen before.

A look of hope.

The look of freedom.

I hate last minute flights and the inevitability of the middle seat. A forty-five minute flight, a meet-and-greet, some business, some dinner, and back home before midnight; not too bad.

I took my seat in 22B against the back bulkhead and watched the rest of the passengers board. A lovely redhead in a power suit looked my way, but turned in at row 19. A twenty-something with an orange Mohawk came all the way to the back and motioned to the window seat. I got up to let him in. He slumped in his seat, cranked up his iPod, and closed his eyes. Perfect: one down, one to go.

The crowd thinned and the aisle seat remained empty. I dared not hope. The flight attendant walked down the aisle, closing the overhead compartments; an encouraging sign.

“Hold the door, little lady!” a voice boomed through the plane.

A large man in a rumpled polyester suit stumbled into the jet. He pushed a battered garment bag into the arms of one of the attendants.

“Take care of this for me, darlin’.” He turned and addressed the rest of the passengers. “Sorry to hold you up, but I think that chicky at security had a thing for me, if you know what I mean.” He punctuated this pronouncement with a broad wink. Everyone found interesting things to look at outside their windows.

The man stutter-stepped down the aisle, checking his ticket against the row numbers every few feet. The numbering system appeared to have him confused. He wandered all of the way to the back of the plane until he loomed over me. He squinted at his ticket and then at the numbers on the console. Ticket; console; ticket; console; like some sort of mental tennis game with the score stuck at love-love.

“Is this 22C?” he asked, pointing at the only empty seat on the plane.

I nodded. He plopped down with an audible whump and flipped up the armrest between us.

“That’s better,” he muttered, wriggling his butt in the seat and claiming an extra inch of neutral territory with each nudge.

He held out one beefy paw and said, “Name’s Justus. Buford Justus, III. I’m in the wealth preservation game.”

I took his hand and was rewarded with a bone-crushing handshake.

“Brad Johnson,” I mumbled.

I looked into his face. Red blotches from his recent exertions punctuated his pasty, white skin. Sweat trickled from his temples and strands of hair clung to his forehead.

He wiped the sweat on the sleeve of his jacket. It beaded up on the synthetic material and reflected the cabin lights.

“Sorry I’m such a mess. That storm knocked out my power and my alarm died. Didn’t even have time to take a shower.”

I studied my fingernails intently.

Justus leafed through the literature in his seat rack. Unsatisfied, he leaned over and pawed through mine.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, without bothering to wait for an answer. “Ah! Here it is.”

He held up his prize: the air sick bag.

“Never know when one of these is gonna come in handy.”

We sat through the FAA instructions and a mercifully brief taxi and takeoff. We had barely cleared the airport when a sharp thunk jolted our seats.

“What was that?” Justus jumped. His hand gripped my knee so hard my leg shot out and my shin whacked the footrest in front of me. “Did something fall off?”

“That was just the landing gear coming up,” I assured him. I pried his hand from my knee. The returning circulation throbbed in my bruised shin.

We reached cruising altitude in a few minutes. I thumbed through the airline magazine and found a half-done crossword. I set to work.

I filled in 24 down.

“Uh oh,” Justus said. “You sure about that?”

He leaned in to get a better look at the puzzle. A rancid mixture of sour breath and sweat stink assailed my nostrils.

I ignored him as best I could and spent the remainder of the short flight working out the puzzle to an accompaniment of groans and tsks from my seatmate.

The landing was uneventful, though Justus kept his bag close at hand. We taxied toward the terminal and people pulled out cell phones and Blackberries. I sighed, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

The plane rolled to a stop. I looked outside to see a light snow falling and a long line of planes curving away in front of us, parked on the runway.

“Oh no!” a cry went up from the middle of the plane. “My husband is watching the news at home and says people have been sitting on the tarmac here at Logan for three hours waiting for a gate!”

“Well,” exclaimed Justus, “don’t that beat all. Say, Brad,” he turned my way, “did I mention I was in wealth preservation…”

Benaminjaro was restless. He arose from the floor of his den, and warily looked outside. The sun was setting; its fading light shone over the walls of the lion's pen. The zoo was closed now, and the evening was quiet. Only the incessant screeching of a baboon in the distance could be heard above the whispering wind. With a shake of his mane, Benaminjaro left the den and began his evening patrol.

The magnificent lion stalked along the stone wall, went around the concrete boulder, and then made a right turn at the corner. He plodded down the well-worn path and sniffed at the dish where the hairless apes had left his last dinner. It was still empty. It only reminded Benaminjaro of how hungry he was.

He continued his tour of his pen. Right turn. Long fence. Right turn. Rock wall. Right turn. Door to the den. Around the boulder. Right turn. Rock wall. Empty dish. Right turn.

There was no way out, and only rarely was there a break in the monotony. He remembered the time that one of the hairless apes had jumped over the wall. He had been asleep in his den, and the den door had slammed shut before he could sink his teeth into the intruder. He had missed his chance. He growled softly in frustration. A hairless ape would make a good meal right now. Or even a baboon. Especially a baboon.

Right turn. Long fence. Right turn. Rock wall. Right turn. Door to the den. Around the boulder. Right turn. Rock wall. Empty dish. Right turn.

He stopped to look at the world through the bars in the fence that formed the south wall of the enclosure. The distant trees swayed slowly in the breeze, and birds soared with the puffy clouds in the skies above. The birds were free, at least. He wondered what it must be like to still be free, and thought of his friend Bengali, the tiger. He would know. Benaminjaro stood there, remembering Bengali....

At that very moment, in a far-off land, Bengali was also hungry. He crept along the base of the rock wall, his stripes blending in with the evening shadows. Despite the tiger's enormous size, he stalked noiselessly, slowly, belly dragging on the ground, the better to surprise any prey that might be hiding behind the next rock. He hadn't had a good meal in days, and a baby mountain goat, or even a ground squirrel, would ease his gnawing hunger. His mouth watered at the thought. Quietly, carefully, he edged around the boulder.

Nothing.

Snarling in disgust, Bengali rose to his full height and continued along the cliff wall. Through a high break in the rock face, Bengali saw distant trees, but there was no way for him to get to the opening in the rock. He came to the mouth of a small cave, and sniffed at the air. He had explored this cave before; there would be nothing of interest for him there now.

He remembered how much his friend Benaminjaro had enjoyed sleeping in caves, before he was captured by the hairless apes. Benaminjaro had been too-easily enticed by fresh meat. Bengali had been more wary, and had avoided the trap. He'd watched from the shadows as the apes came for Benaminjaro. They hadn't killed him, though. They'd carried him off.

Bengali had vowed that he would never be carried off by hairless apes.

Bengali noticed a high rock ledge above his head, and reached it with a powerful leap. Balancing precariously on the loose rocks, he surveyed the ground before him. In the distance, he heard the sound of an approaching herd of water buffalo. There might yet be dinner for me tonight, he thought, as he began to plan his hunt. He would hide in that thicket of―

Wait! The sound wasn't from a herd of water buffalo! It was from a hairless ape! He was trapped!

"Benjamin Winston Breckenridge! What are you doing? Get off of that dresser this instant!"

"Aw, mom...."

"I am at my wit's end with you, young man. Are you ready to come down and apologize to your sister and finish your dinner?"

"No. Susie is a baboon."

"I am sorry you still feel that way, Ben. You'll just have to stay here in your room until you're ready to say you're sorry. And, no TV tonight."

"Not even Animal Planet?"

"No."

"But mom...."

"No buts."

The door closed behind her.

Ben stood there angrily. Then he got down on all fours.

Trapped again, Mighty Ben, the ferocious leopard, roared in anger, and stalked off along the base of the sheer cliff.

Trapped!

Nasty bars everywhere!

Teeth hurt from the bars. They are too hard.

Wood shavings not soft! Poke through my fur and scratch my skin.

Water not clean! It forgot to give me new water for two days.

Food is good. Food is always the same, but always good. No, not always the same. Some days It shares food. Those are good days. Those are very good days.

Cat! Cat cat cat cat cat cat!! Hide under wood shavings. Be very still. Cage shakes and rattles, but cat can’t get through bars. Sweet, sweet bars.

All quiet. Cat gone.

Heart still pounding, I see it: my wheel. My sweet, sweet wheel. I climb into the wheel and run and run and run and run! I run so fast I get halfway up the wheel, farther than I ever went before.

Tired now, I stop. I rest.

The cage jumps again! Where is the cat? The cat is running around and around. Everything is jumping, falling, crashing. The earth itself is moving!

My cage is falling, falling….
_________________________________________

I open my eyes. My world is upside down. I lie among damp wood shavings on the ceiling of my cage. The wheel is above me, rocking gently. The door is open. The door is open!

Free!!! I am free. I run from the cage. The world is mine!

The ground is very soft. I run here. I run there. I run under things. I run over things. I run to where one world ends and another begins. In this world the ground is hard and shiny. Everything in this world is hard and shiny. Like the bars of my cage. I turn to go, but my nose stops me.

Food! I smell food. New food. Different food. Sweet, sweet food.

I follow my nose to the food. I can’t believe it! Food scattered across the hard ground as far as I can see! Never in the whole world did I dream there was this much food.

Eat eat eat eat eat.

Time for sleep. I look for my bed of wood shavings. It is gone! Where did it go? I go back from the hard world of food to the soft world. There are many small, dark, soft places. I run under the nearest one until I find a corner. I curl up with my tail around my nose and sleep.
_____________________________________________________

I wake up and stretch. My belly feels so good. Time for the wheel. There is no wheel! Where is the wheel?

I wander over the soft ground. Everything is new. Everything is different.

Cat! Cat cat cat cat cat cat cat!! I run and hide in the dark corner. The cat comes after me. Where are my bars? My sweet, sweet bars?

The cat’s paw reaches in and the sharp, sharp claws catch my fur. I wriggle and squirm and squirm and wriggle until I am free.

I run! I run this way and I run that way. The cat watches but does not move. The cat is stupid. I am free!

I run and run until a dark shape looms over me. The light is blotted out and the cat comes crashing down on top of me. Sharp, sharp claws rake my skin. I bleed. There is pain; so much pain. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing. I close my eyes and lie still. Very still.

Many heartbeats go by. I open my eyes. The cat is there, watching. Maybe the cat is not stupid. I am trapped! The cat hisses its horrible hiss.

A loud shout fills the room. It is here. It picks up the cat, throws it into the hard world, and closes the door to that world. It reaches its hand to me. I crawl into the hand. I have crawled into the hand many times. It is warm and safe.

It picks up my cage, puts me inside, and closes the door. Then It lets the cat back in, but I am not afraid. I am safe! Safe in my cage. Sweet, sweet, cage.

THWAPPP!!!

Rodney grimaced at the sharp pain in his tail. He looked behind him. Yeah, a rat trap all right. Start daydreaming for just one second and... Well, he had to think. At least the trap had caught his tail, and nothing important. When those things came down the wrong way, they made a handy guillotine. Or worse. He considered the situation, and decided it called for some cheese, the very thing that got him in this predicament in the first place. Luckily, the bait was within reach, since he bloody well was not going anywhere for a while. He munched as he contemplated his situation, which he decided, was not a good one.

Just then Joe and Mule wandered by, spied him caught by the tail, and came up to torment him over it. Just what he needed. A couple of wise rats.

“Hey Rodney, you look like a rat caught in a trap”, Mule quipped, looking pleased that he got two brain cells to fire at one time for once in his life.

“Beautiful, just beautiful”, Rodney said. “Now how about lifting the bar on this thing?”

“I dunno, they warned us about that in Rat School”, Joe said. “Way dangerous thing to do. We could get our fingers caught”.

“Fine”, said Rodney, and thought some more. Then he had it. The ticket out. “You know that small bag of contaminated cat food in the garage?” Rodney asked. “The lady of the house put it out there thinking it would work as rat poison”.

“Yeah, I know the one you are talking about”, Joe said. “So what?”

“So I want you to open it, spill half the contents out, and bring the rest of the bag to me”, Rodney explained.

Joe scratched his head. “We can do that. What’s in it for us?”

“I don’t suppose the joy of helping a fellow rat in dire need would be a factor?” Rodney tried.

“Good one Rodney. Well, we have to be going before the cat comes to investigate.” Joe pointed out.

“OK, you guys got me. I was going to have this cheese as a last meal. I would much prefer to not need a last meal. Bring me the bag and you get the cheese. Make it snappy though, Tiger will be by sooner rather than later”, Rodney said.

Joe and Mule didn’t need telling twice. They scampered off to the garage, and quickly returned with the bag of contaminated cat food. Rodney handed over the cheese, took the bag, and spread some of the remaining food around him. “If you guys could nudge the cat from a safe distance, I would appreciate it”, he said.

Joe and Mule had already stuffed their faces with cheese. Joe make an ‘OK’ sign, and they took off.

Rodney laid back and waited for the show to begin. Sure enough, the aptly named “Tiger” appeared. Tiger was a lot more fearsome before Rodney managed to hang that bell around his neck, and Tiger never forgave him for it.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite rat”, Tiger chuckled.

“Oooo, have mercy, kill me now”, Rodney said.

“That's what I had in mind”, Tiger said. “After a little tormenting anyway”. He looked at Rodney again. “Say, what is wrong with you?”

Rodney moaned for effect. “My tummy is burning. I found this bag of yummy food out in the garage, and started eating it. Suddenly I got dizzy, and staggered into this trap”.

“Great, just great, you ate the poisoned cat food”, Tiger said. “Now I can’t eat you. Oh well, I will just let you sit here and croak in peace.” Tiger, the humanitarian continued.

“Well, I am dead either way, so it doesn’t matter to me... you on the other hand”, he started.

“Yes?” asked Tiger, interested despite himself.

“Would probably be best off freeing my tail so I can crawl off to my hole in the wall to die”, Rodney said.

“How do you figure that?” Tiger asked.

“Well, your mistress is about to arrive home from shopping, she will come into the kitchen, shriek, and...”

“Call for me to dispose of you. As in eat you. I get your point”, Tiger concluded. “How do I know this is not another of your tricks?”

Rodney moaned, bit his tongue, and let a trickle of blood run down the corner of his mouth. Tiger bought it. He loosened the trap. “Am-scray, now!” he commanded.

Rodney staggered off as befitting a rat on his last round up, and ducked into his hole.

Just then the mistress returned. “What? OH NO! You bad cat, you got into the poisoned cat food!” she shrieked.

“Uh oh”, thought Tiger.

“Well we will have to march you straight to the vet’s to get your stomach pumped!”

Safe in his hole, Rodney giggled. THAT was almost worth a bent tail and a bit tongue.

… dark, warm, safe…

****

Still dark, I feel warmer, and I don’t remember how I came here. I check out fingers, toes, other parts. Space is tight, but I am safe.

****

I can’t see. I have eyes, because I can feel them blinking. I have ears, but hear just distant rumbles. I can barely move. I stretch out and the walls that surround me push back. For a while I push and kick, but without any space to move I can’t get a good swing.

I don’t know why I am here. I can’t remember how I got here. Do I sleep? Do I dream?

I don’t know if it is getter warmer or not. My thoughts trouble me. Am I safe?

****

I wake from a dream. Does that mean that I was sleeping? I check out fingers, toes. They wiggle. My eyes still blink open and closed on blackness. The rumbling, is it louder? I don’t belong here. The thought disturbs me, what am I? Why do I have eyes in the darkness? Fingers, with nothing to grasp? I punch and kick again, but space is even tighter. I can barely move.

****

What cruelty placed me in this place? I am crowded on every side by a barely movable barrier. I have eyes that can’t see. I could be blind. I don’t know. I am not deaf. Rumbling grows and subsides. I try to use arms and legs that are weak. I am helpless. I am trapped.

I am trapped. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. Am I breathing? Am I alive? More than this black prison holds me prisoner. My ignorance traps me tighter yet. So I set myself to remember. I will storm the citadel of my mind and wrest memory from its tower. With feeble blows I strike my head, I feel a faint echo of pain. I must live. But still, I am ignorant.

****

I was dreaming again. I dreamt of light and colour. I woke from light into darkness. Something in me cries out. “That is wrong.” I blink eyes that should see. I move hands that need to caress and shape a world. I move feet that should run free across verdant meadows. Who am I to know these things? Memory flashes and vanishes like my dreams, teasing me with a world beyond this prison. My foot touches a difference.

If only I could turn around.

****

Victory! Through contortion and kicking and clawing, I have reversed myself. I explore the difference with fingers and mind. How can I describe it? It is a lessening of tightness? A texture of smoothness? Maybe it is simply less warm. I push and kick with renewed urgency. Still trapped by my ignorance, maybe I can free my body. My prison changes, it has become unwelcoming. Walls push from every side. The rumbling becomes a roar, a screaming. The difference becomes more, and I push myself into a tighter place. Tighter, but new! Harder now, it time with the screams I kick, I claw. I am free!

White light assaults my eyes. Even with eyes screwed shut I see red. Sound is loud and sharp. It is cold. Air moves in and out of my lungs and I cry. I hear my own voice, and it is thin and weak. Roughness replaces coolness. I am placed on softness. I sleep.

I awake in dimness. The air is cool. She is checking my fingers, toes, other parts. I am safe. I hear, I see, I am.

At approximately three minutes after her lunch break had ended, Hazel Christie entered the lobby of the Gatewater Hotel, smelling deeply of cigarettes and giving the overall impression of a wasp; her face was a medley of sharp edges framed with rather large glasses, whilst a black and yellow blouse topped off the image.

She buzzed through the lobby with a face of thunder and as she arrived at the only available elevator she stood inside defiantly, waiting to challenge anyone that wanted to join her.

Unfortunately for Hazel, some alone time on the thirty floor journey was not to be. A young woman stood at the entrance of the elevator and glared. Hazel glared back.

At approximately five minutes after her class had ended, Rosetta Quinn entered the lobby of the Gatewater Hotel, smelling lightly of Sandalwood and giving the overall impression of a swan; her long platinum blonde hair topped a soft, pale face, whilst floor-length white robes topped off the image.

She glided through the lobby serenely and as she arrived at the only available elevator she stood at the entrance defiantly, waiting to challenge the woman standing inside.

Unfortunately for Rosetta, some alone time on the thirty floor journey was not to be. An irascible woman of about fifty greeted her by glaring. Rosetta glared back.

Despite both being immensely headstrong, for some strange reason they both found it markedly hard to persist with the glaring, and, as the elevator began to climb, the women found themselves sharing their journey.

It wasn’t as if there was any particular reason for them wanting to be alone; there was no hidden stash of money, no desire to horrifically kill themselves with the intention of someone stumbling upon the body and certainly no desire to do a complicated disappearing act just to confuse anyone who happened to notice.

No, the women wanted to be alone simply for the reason that they wanted to be alone, and as the elevator came to a grinding halt due to what the Gatewater Hotel would later describe as a ‘technical fault’, they realised that being alone would not just be impossible for the thirty floors, but also for the time it took for the elevator to begin working again.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ said Hazel, full of bitterness, full of acidity. She reached into one of the pockets in her rather garish skirt and pulled out a worn cigarette packet, and began the process of lighting one.

‘Excuse me, sweetie, but you can’t do that in here. It’s not allowed. Fire hazard, you see. Could kill us, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.’ Rosetta had spoken for the first time, and her voice was of a striking and refined quality, a sort of vocal equivalent of a palace, making Hazel’s scratchy voice seem positively lacklustre.

Hazel scowled. Who was this woman, young enough to be her daughter, to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? She nonetheless complied, but didn’t admit defeat. All she had to do was pretend to ignore this woman, and she wouldn’t talk to her anymore. But then again, she needed to get out of there, and communication was the quickest way.

‘Thanks ever so much, the smoke does so get to my lungs.’ The words came shining out of Rosetta’s mouth.

Hazel mustered a sarcastic smile. ‘How do we get out of here? Shouldn’t there be some kind of phone? I’ll try my mobile.’

Despite being relatively calm, Rosetta thought it might help the situation if she were to block out the irritating smoky woman by sitting down and practicing some form of meditation. Unlike Hazel, who had been trapped in an elevator some years before, it was Rosetta’s first experience, and despite having the misfortune of having to share it with the irritating smoky woman, she was quite enjoying it.

She sat down and began some breathing exercises, trying her hardest to focus on nothing. Hazel paced, frantically pressing the buttons of her mobile phone. Rosetta soon realised she was failing in her quest to focus on nothing because of the thought that if she died in this elevator, trapped, then she would die trapped with the irritating smoky woman. Hazel couldn’t really achieve anything helpful by the frantic pushing of buttons because the thought of dying kept cropping up, the thought of dying not trapped alone, but with some stuck up pretty hippy that stank of sandalwood.

As is probably evident, the chances of the two women in that elevator dying, trapped, with no one but some despicable woman for company were particularly small, but in these situations minds begin to wander. It just so happens, of course, that the two women didn’t die, and as intended they finally reached the thirtieth floor of the Gatewater Hotel. Hazel turned left, Rosetta turned right.

The smell of the room hit me as soon as I walked in. I had never felt so overpowered by something; my hand involuntarily rose to my nose. It wasn’t a disgusting smell, quite the opposite actually. The odour was clean, too clean. Wafts of bleach and other strong cleaning products burned my throat.

The room was almost clinical. The white tiles were clean beyond any normal standard; it was as though the room hadn’t been used for a long time, but someone had still made the effort of cleaning it, despite there being no need to. The bathroom was not overly large, but it wasn’t small. It was a rather average room, only the sheer cleanliness of it made it stand out of the ordinary. The suite was a brilliant white and kept to the highest of sanitary standards.

In the corner, between the wall and the toilet, sat a girl; her legs crossed, with her head resting in her hands. Her face was not visible due to her long brown hair falling forwards. She did not look unkempt, she appeared quite clean in fact, but she was all alone. I slowly walked over to her and crouched down, but she didn’t look up. I softly told her who I was and why I was there and she began to talk.

It was difficult to understand her through the sobs that shook her body but after listening to her for half an hour she started to calm down. I passed her a tissue for her wet eyes and then she moved her head upwards, causing her long brown hair to fall away from her face. Her eyes were swollen red from crying and her face damp to match, but she smiled. I reached out for her hand and helped her to her feet, telling her that everything would be fine and I would sort everything out for her. I put a blanket round her shoulders and lead her downstairs. We sat at a large dark oak dining table while the neighbour made us some tea.

“Are you sure everything will be OK?” She whispered.

The kind neighbour delicately placed a cup of warm tea in front of her and the girl wrapped her fingers around it, cupping it as if it were her life line. His wife sat next her and put her arm around her shoulder, telling her not to worry. The neighbour gestured to me that he wished to speak to me. We stood in the hallway, so I could keep an eye on her.

“Did I do the right thing?” he asked, his hand running through his grey hair. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

I looked at him now; I had only really noticed his presence before. He had tired, anxious eyes, and one of those faces that would be jolly if he only smiled. I had to reassure him. I felt guilty for not acknowledging him before; the world needs more people like Mr Peters from number 22.

He looked at me then, right into my eyes, as if he was looking into my soul. His wrinkled hand rested on my arm. “Tell me what happened, please.”

I explained to him how she got locked in the bathroom for two nights because of the dodgy door handle. Her parents were away for the weekend, so there was no one in the house. I told him how she had drank the water from the taps, and that she spent her time cleaning and organising the medicine cabinet. When we had arrived, she thought we were her parents coming home early.

“So why is she so upset, did something happen to her while she was in there?” he asked, looking over to her sitting at the table with his wife.

“She was concerned because she hadn’t been able to do all the ironing like she promised her mother before she came home,” I said. “I think the time she spent trapped in there made her get worked up about it. And it must have been terribly frightening to be stuck in your own home, especially when you feel that someone is relying on you like that.”

Mr Peters’ eyes lost a touch of their anxiousness as he faintly smiled at me. He thanked me and walked over to Sarah and his wife. “You silly sausage,” he said as he put his hand on her shoulder, “Brenda will help you to do all the ironing and I’ll fix that bloody door handle.”

For the first time that day, Sarah saw the funny side of things and started to giggle. It became infectious and soon we were all laughing. The kind neighbour who was so solemn only moments before showed his face as it was meant to be; jolly and full of warmth.

“Where are you boy?”

I hear his drunken voice bellowing from the other side of the door. I sit here curled up in a ball. I know I’m safe here. He’ll forget what he’s looking for soon.

I here a thump as he sits down on the sofa. It's dark in here. I hate the dark, but if I just wait here for five minutes he might fall asleep. I can here muffled voices from the living room. I hope he's alone. I hate it when he brings his friends home. They're usually worse than he is.

I wait about ten minutes. Better safe than sorry. I quietly open the cupboard door and creep through to the kitchen. I can see the glow of the television through the lounge door.

“Do you want a coffee Dad? Didn’t think so!”

He’s passed out, as usual. I cover him with the blanket that we keep behind the sofa.

It’s not been the same since Mum died. He’s not been the same. We used to play football during the day. At night he would pick long words out of the newspaper and get me to spell them. I’ve won the spelling bee three years in a row. It’s up again next week. I hope he can make it.

He hasn’t been to a football match, school play or parents evening since she died. It’s been six months.

It was my seventh birthday. She’d gone out to get my cake, on the way home she was knocked down by a bus. The judge decided it was her fault. There was no compensation. Insurance policy didn’t pay out. Dad had to take a second job. Dad says she wasn’t looking where she was going. She was too busy wondering how excited I would be when I saw my cake. It had my favourite superhero, Captain Spearhead, on it.

My dad blames me. He hates me. He hurts me. Sometimes he just calls me names. Sometimes he punches me. I know it’s my fault. Know it’s punishment for killing my mum, but wish he would stop, it really hurts. I thought it might get better, but it hasn’t.

I can’t tell though. An older girl at my school told a teacher when her mum threw her down the stairs. They took her away to a big house with lots of kids who didn’t have a mum and dad. Her mum went to prison. I don’t want my dad to go to prison. He’s not a bad man like the murderers in prison. He’s not really doing anything bad. He’s just sad and angry. He loved my mum so much and I took her away.

I wish I could talk to someone. I wish I had a friend. But if I tell anyone, they wouldn’t understand. They won’t see that Dad’s just hurting. Sometimes I wish that someone would notice.

“Hey jack, how’d you get that bruise on your face?”

But I’d probably lie. Tell them I feel down the stairs. So for now, I need to keep this secret. I need to keep my dad safe. Maybe he’ll get better soon. I hope.

He examined his enclosure. Solid glass on all sides, top and bottom. He felt the surface with his hands, hoping to find a crack, a hidden switch, something to open the box.

People passed by him, some stopping to look, some curious, others annoyed. A few dropped some random coins on the pavement. He didn’t need spare change, he needed out of the box.

He tried to cry out for help, but the glass enclosure must have been soundproofed. Nobody heard his pleas, or at even acknowledged them. He banged at the glass with his fists. Nothing.

He could understand how they felt, he was dressed in the usual black and white, with white face paint. He must look like a freak. He tried kicking the glass, it refused to yield. He got his back up against the opposite wall, and tried pushing the glass again with his legs. It didn’t budge.

This was insane. He laid back against the floor, and tried to kick open the top of the box. Still nothing. Getting frantic he pummeled all six sides with his fists, to no avail. He didn’t understand why he was not running out of air, he should be out of it by now, but he wasn’t feeling any effects of oxygen deprivation. It was very puzzling.

One of the people who left looking annoyed came back with a policeman in tow. Finally! Some help. The policeman looked at him.

“All right buddy, do you have a street entertainment permit?” the policeman asked.

He shrugged, and shook his head.

“Then move along before I have to arrest you for disturbing the peace”, the policeman said sternly.

He pounded the wall nearest the policeman with his fists. Nothing. Didn’t the fool understand, it wasn’t that he did not want to leave this place, he couldn’t!

The policeman got out a ticket book. “All right buddy, you had your chance, I am going to have to write you up. You got a name?”

He tried to tell the policeman, but no words escaped the glass.

“This is getting really old buddy. Show me some ID”.

He checked his pocket, and suddenly realized he didn’t have a wallet, or even a pocket to put one in. He shrugged again.

“Enough of this!” the policeman said, and reached to pull him up off the sidewalk.

He stared in amazement as the policeman’s hands sailed through the glass as if it was not even there.

Then it was the policeman’s turn to stare in amazement when his hands passed right through the mime. Just then his partner walked up.

“What’s the matter Clarence, you look like you’ve seen a ghost”, his partner said.

“I have”, replied Clarence. “The mime isn’t there”.

“Clarence, quit pulling my leg”, his partner said, and went to grab the mime. His hand also passed straight through it.

The mime’s figure blinked twice and then vanished, leaving two very confused policemen with a crowd behind them.

“It was your collar, Clarence, you fill out the report to headquarters”, his partner said.

Meanwhile in his room overlooking the city street, Kevin chuckled. He had been born with a genetic nerve disorder, and could barely move, hands eyes and mouth only. Speaking was a chore. He had been trapped in that electric wheelchair almost since birth, his ‘mime’ was lucky in comparison.

“That was cool”, his friend John said. “How did you do that?”

“Holographic field”, Kevin said in his tortured voice. He steered his chair over to the computer. “What is interesting though, was the AI program. The projection actually had a self identity”.

“I’m not sure what you mean” said John.

“It was aware of what it thought was its own existence. The next step is to be able to project a person’s personality into the Holograph”, Kevin said.

“What is the point?” John asked.

“The point is that I would be as good as out of this chair. My body would still be stuck here. I would be out there”, Kevin explained. “Imagine a whole virtual world like that!” he said with a far away look in his eyes.

John shuddered, and civilization felt a chilling wind. Somehow, this did not seem like a fun game any more. He wondered if he would take the blue pill or the red one when the time came...