I could almost feel it, touch it, hold it- each delicate shaft brushing against the length of my fingers, twisting and turning in a plethora of coloured shards that dances and shines and coils about the very tips themselves. I could feel it, I was sure, each colour bursting in a beautiful array of wickedly perfect striations of delicacy that float and turn and twist like wisps of fine smoke within the air. It is exquisite, perfect, soft and fine, the colours a beautifully wild array, an orchestra of colour, the air filled with flashes of shining.....light. I ignored them, all of them, those whispers that invaded my mind and turned with darkly fractured ease against those fine shards of mind I struggle to hold together. Each whisper stung and burned and struck against the fine framework of conscious thought my mind has twisted together from the scraps I call an existence. They think I can't hear them, the other people that walk by, they think I don't know, that I can't hear. What's wrong with him? What's wrong with him? Again and again I hear it, that beat that never ends, that wraps against me and cuts and slices so violently at what remains of those delicate threads of sanity that struggle to hold the weight of a fractured existence that wavers upon the precipice even now. Stupid. This is what they say. Stupid...stupid boy. I feel it within my throat, clawing and rolling, pulling at each muscle like a rabid dog at the couple that passes, that point at what's left of me, as if I can't see them, as if that blackness of my gaze doesn't slice towards them with all the violent intent of a perfectly placed and sharpened blade. I did nothing to them. Nothing- and still they point at the boy whom lies on the brick wall, one hand held above my head, fingers tracing each bead of light in some hope that I may be able to catch it, to seize it, to hold it and cling to it. They talk and whisper and mutter until the sounds hurt my skull and scrape at the inside of my ears as the growl erupts from within, that feral and wild sound that sees them flinch away like kittens or puppies told off. Let them. I don't care, I don't need them. I am not....insane.

They hurry past and I return to my waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Sometimes she comes past here, the one with the hair that rolls and twists and curls like wind and smells of dog. She has a flavour, a taste, a scent and a touch that appeals, that stirs something in the same way as Nadya. Nadya. Sister. My Sister. Sister of Tetra. Leader. Tetra is Leader- have to protect him. My mind does not remember then who I am waiting for, the thought weak and fragile, unable to be held and caught, as fleeting and fluttering as butterflies within a net to wide and large. I cannot find the thought, cannot remember who I was waiting for- and that is when it begins to burn. To burn and hurt inside my mind and veins until my hands clench into fists against the brick of the wall, frustration so hot burning against me. I can't remember. I can't find that thought, so lost within the maze of frustrated anarchy that exists within the confines of my mind, struggling to search each fractured pathway for the memory of why. The brick is rough beneath my hands and fingers. Rough. Hard. Not soft and gentle like that light and the colours. Maybe the others cannot see the colours, maybe that is why all walk past me, maybe that is why the point and stare and whisper these nasty things. They cannot see the colours in the light or the fractions of shining capsules of delight that exist within the world- I am sad for them, I think. I am not sure, I cannot feel it- not anymore. Emotion is lost and gone, buried deeper then I can find, to hard....much too hard to find. My body is tired from looking for it, tired from feeling, it is easier not to, easier to feel anger and hate and frustration then whatever else exists.

Fingers trace the brick now, each line and groove and crack, dancing and skating upon the surface as I sit up, dark eyes searching. I snuck away from them, sliding and creeping and hiding, snuck away from the dead ones. I know they search and hunt and look. It is a game we play, a game of hiding and seeking and finding- but I will hide so well today, will not go back, not yet, it is not time. Time. She gave to me a time counter. It is cold and smooth and glows and glints and it ticks and ticks. I cannot count the time, the numbers do not stay within my mind, they get lost and trapped and caught in the blackened oblivion that exists and eats away at all that I know. I hid it. My time counter. Had to...because she will take it. Nasty woman. Takes all my things and Tetra's things. She....she.....but a different she. I am waiting for her, I think maybe I remember. Waiting for her....Birdie. Yes. I was waiting for Birdie, because she comes this way, because I want to talk to her. I want to do what the others do. I want to try it. I have seen them, watched them, seen them go into the warm place that smells so much of food, seen them sit at tables and read the lines that mean things. I just want to try it, I just want to see. I cannot be like them, I am not them. I know- but I want to try. I need her help, I need her to show me what my mind cannot understand, I need someone to follow, to copy, to mimic like the boy in the mirror that follows me. I need to see it done.

"Birdie!"

I do not mean to shout it. It is louder then I want, but this is the word that comes when I see her, a reaction I cannot stop as I slip from the wall, feeling earth beneath my feet so soft and smooth and alive. I can only stand in front of her, to make her stop, pointing...pointing to what I want, towards the café. Pointing because I do not have the words, because I want to ask her to please take me there, to please eat with me, to let me be just like the others....but I can't. The words are there, I know them, I know them I am sure but I cannot grab them, cannot hold them, cannot make them reach my lips. I want to have lunch with her.

"We have to...go to...there."

I sound like a child. Like a broken child. Why? Why can't I make the words sound right? Why don't they work? Please....please understand. I know what I want to say, I know the words but.....when I speak they are wrong, when I speak they break and fracture and I am stuck holding the pieces of what is left of the sentence I ruined. Please....please don't stare at me like I'm...stupid. I'm stuck....stuck in a body I can't make work. I don't mean to be angry but I hate it. I hate me. I hate that I sound like this and I feel frustration again as I snatch her hand in my own...because I need something solid and real to hold, because I need her to understand as I drag her towards the doors, to make her see what I can't say- pointing again, pointing because I have nothing left.

"I want to....have that....food."

Please. Please understand.

madness, as you know, is like gravity: all it takes is a little push