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Their marbles were turned to the door. Their expressions were non-existent, after all the times I’d tried to make them smile. The tools they’d used in their lives were limp, bloodless and hollow. It was rather curious to see them propped up against the walls. They were all like empty shells a snail leaves behind; the snail’s essence flies free, forgetting the rough, plain shell.

I hope Michael will appreciate them. I took quite some time to organise them like that.

Jack was watching me from his spot, enveloped in shadow. I miss those coal-like eyes he was watching me with. I’ve mourned him for a whole year now. He still visits, but it’s not the same as when he’d spoil and break all those people for me.

I started travelling to that moment again. That time he’d forgotten to take me with him. But I suppose we both knew I couldn’t follow. I remember the life seeping out of those same eyes, as if there was a tiny hole, or breakage, through which it was escaping. They were left full of emptiness, instead of the corrupt enthusiasm that should have been there. I hated remembering that. I’m still trying to hang on to my memories, even if he really is gone and I don’t see him anymore.

"A little late, isn’t he?" Jack mused.

"No," I stated. "He’s coming now."

I heard faint footfalls catalysed by the wide corridor, creating echoes, mapping the trail they were taking to reach us, at the bottom – in Solitary Confinement. A few voices accompanied the varying steps, which were gaining density. Getting louder.

Michael emerged gradually from the dull flight of stairs. I saw his carefully polished, black shoes first. Then all the other shoes, belonging to the light collection of orderlies and nurses, shuffling up behind him.

All their voices poured into the corridor, and halted once Michael’s shoes stopped walking.

"Emily," he acknowledged me, confidently.

His eyes skimmed the terrain. The empty, glass cells. Me. The crimson splashed on the grey walls. The fleshy, solid shells. Me. The continuing corridor behind me. The shells. The crimson. Me.

His eyes widened progressively throughout, in unison with the small knit of people. Odd to see them so convincing.
"Emily," Michael repeated, this time a little breathlessly. He ran a hand through his hair.

I stretched my lips over my teeth.

"What is there to smile about?" he demanded weakly.

"It’s your birthday," I congratulated him.

"It isn’t m- Oh… thank you," he said absently, remembering it, and then falling silent.

He couldn’t rip his gaze away from the lifeless. Sweat started leaking, and rolling down the sides of his face, whilst the white-clad orderlies were surveying me, their mouths clamped shut, like oysters.

I saw the recognition flicker across Michael’s features, as he saw his dear sister among the displayed shells. He seemed like he hadn’t understood she wasn’t here anymore. He mouthed indiscernible words to her, and his arms twitched up, as if to her. He jolted forwards, but then his body refused to make another move. He gulped, gnawed on his bottom lip and returned his focus to me.

"Stop smiling," he ordered, almost pleading.

I didn’t obey. "I don’t take orders. I give them."

I strode closer to him. I cocked my head to one side, studying his broken face. The slight scar, which I gave him for his last birthday was still there, of course, segmenting his face. I’m pleased he kept it. It would have been rude to try and dispose of it. It was a gift, after all.

He recoiled as I reached for his face to run my fingers along it.

"Why did you kill her? My sister," he mumbled.

I lowered my hand slightly. Did he just…?

"Don’t ask questions," I ordered. My voice emerged uncomprehending and unsure. Why?

I stared at him for a moment, and then my hand flew swiftly to his face. He winced. Didn’t move – just as he was supposed to.

The orderlies and nurses stepped backwards, giving me more room. Or were they wary of me hurting them?

Jack averted my attention. "I told you they’d be like that."

Yes, he did.

He moved out of his space of darkness and came under the dim light in the grey corridor. It flickered a little.

"Always too wary of what they don’t understand, eh?" He laughed.

"Hmmm," I agreed.

They don’t understand me, tell me I’m ill. Ill. Horrible word. Can’t be cured, they say. Well, don’t need a cure. Who needs a cure when they’re not ill?
I felt Michael’s eyes on me. Blocked them out of my view. Rude to stare, hasn’t anyone ever told him?

"If they’re afraid of you," he jerked his head to where they were standing, "you have their control. You have power over them, ‘cause they don’t know what you’re gonna do next."

I nodded. He’s right.

I switched my gaze to Michael again, and stared right back. I glared. There’s nothing to stare at, I thought. Stop looking at me. I can see the ‘sympathy’. I don’t want it. Don’t need it.

"How dare you?" I seethed.

He blinked a few times, but wouldn’t speak.

"How dare you stare?" I repeated.

"I’m sorry," he remembered himself.

"You’re sorry," I confirmed.

I nodded, and turned on my heel to walk the length of the corridor. I can’t stand all those eyes on me, watching anything and everything I do. Looking at me like a wild animal. It’s unnerving. I don’t understand why they do it.

Jack understands why. He understands most things, and the only one who understands me. He actually knows how to help me. He did everything I couldn’t do a while back.

I’d gone half the length of the corridor, when I heard a swarm of shoe scrapes and steps following me. I turned around, out of curiosity, but didn’t have time to turn all the way around.

I felt hot hands attach themselves to my wrists, around my waist, pinning my shoulders. Merciless people had these hands, people who didn’t understand. These strong hands gripped my limbs, as I pushed and pulled back, struggling to get free.

I couldn’t stop myself. "What are you doing?" I demanded shrilly.

I saw Michael appear between the mess of white, in his black suit. "What’s best," he chirped lightly.

"What?" I exploded.

Through the shuffles and struggles, I heard Jack.

"See you outside, Em," he sighed casually.

An instant panic choked me; cut off my air supply. Outside? When? He’s leaving me here?

"What?" flew out of my mouth again.

Michael and Jack spoke at once: "What’s best" and "Outside" were thrown together, and were jumbled to my ears.

The disgusting hot hands still stuck to my limbs. I’d stopped fighting against them to try hear Jack. But before I got back to him, Michael stepped forward, clasping something I couldn’t see. I spotted Jack standing behind him, suddenly looking disappointed with me. A frown creased his forever-young face.

Something jabbed into my arm. I tried to release an exclamation of some kind, but my voice wouldn’t conform. Nothing would come out except for breath. Nothing could help me.

I could feel a liquid being pushed into my bloodstream. I glanced over to Michael. He was holding a little vial with a thin, cruel needle inserted through my skin. I rippled around a bit, like a fish out of water, and looked to Jack again.

He still stood in the same place. I wished he would do something, fight for me, but he lowered his head, shook it solemnly and forced his hands in his pockets. He couldn’t help. He couldn’t! He wouldn’t even try…

I couldn’t hear what Michael was telling the orderlies, or their heavy breathing. I was becoming deaf somehow.

Jack mouthed something I couldn’t see. The syllable shapes he made with his mouth didn’t make any sense. I didn’t hear the words he spoke. I still don’t know what it was he said.

My muscles became lax. I slumped closer down to the chilly corridor floor, and the orderlies’ grip on me loosened.

My vision started darkening around the edges. It was like a light being dimmed. I tried to fight the filthy sleep Michael injected into me, but I was just so tired. It was like an extreme lethargy taking hold of my entire body.

I succumbed to the dark, and slept.

*

Through my eyes, I am still sleeping. Permanently in the dark, left vulnerable and solitary, expected to survive with the other four senses.

Strangely enough, Michael still thinks he’s trying to ‘help’ me, no matter how spiteful he is during. He sees me as an unfinished project, or experiment.

I heard him scratching something onto paper. I heard the fan whirring around above me. The armchair I sat on squeaked and slipped underneath me. There was someone pacing, evenly, in front of the door. I listened to the orchestra of sounds around me, whilst innocently twiddling my thumbs.

He stopped scratching, put down his pen and leant back in his chair, causing it to creak under his weight.

I could feel his analytical eyes on me.

"How are you finding this new medical technique, Emily?" he queried.

I mentally refused to answer any questions.

"I know it’s a little unorthodox, but we all hope it’ll work," he added hastily.

I could tell he was faking it. The concern in his voice isn’t something I’d trust right away. I never have.

"We all know that you can’t have your hallucinations, now that you’re –erm, slightly disabled," he stated simply.

I’ve heard this before. I stopped twiddling.

I gritted my teeth. "Jack was not a hallucination."

"Ah, I see," he murmured, soaked in sarcasm, mocking me – stressing that last word.

I sat in a silent, rapidly increasing, rage.

"How do you feel about all those murders you committed that night, and, indeed, before that night?" he accused.

"I never… k-" I stumbled over the word.

He hurried on with another question. "Did you think about the people who would die along with those you murdered: the relatives and friends the dead leaves behind?"

He barely let me open my mouth to that.

"Did you want to reach the ones who were close to those people? Did you want to hurt so many people in the process…?" he prattled on.

"Stop it!" I roared.

He ignored me. Pretended not to hear. "How do you feel about all those murders Jack committed on your behalf while you were here? Why do you think he kept going without you? That is before…"

I slipped off the armchair onto my knees in front of the desk. I thumped my fist wildly on the table, chanting "Stop, stop, stop," like a child.
He raised his voice to its full volume, still in his chair. "Do you think it’s fair, considering all the people you two put six feet under, that Jack is now de–?"
"No! Don’t say it!" I gasped, before he had a chance to get the word out. I gripped the ends of the table, which was separating us. "Stop asking me questions! Don’t ask questions!"

I heard him force the chair to creak once more, by leaning in slightly. He gently rested his elbows on the table.

"I don’t take orders. I give them."