Sin... her...

I was sure it was her, and ran to catch up.

15 years since I saw her last, and I still remembered her walk and the colour of her hair and her... sense of self. She knew who she was. In a world where most were flailing about in a sea of senselessness, she knew. And, at those moments I'd spend in her presence, I knew my Self too.

Granted, once I was away from her, my Self ran and hid in whichever shadowy recess it called home.

I called out her name, my voice suddenly running faster than I and so sounding too quick, too high, too desperate.

She walked quickly. She always did. Heels pushing her legs up to her armpits, she could out stride Superman, leaping buildings in a single bound. By the time I finally was toe to heel and could reach out to grab her, she was already at the bus stop. The number 5.

My hand was on her shoulder, turning her, her name stalling on the tip of my tongue, afraid to leap out into the abyss between us.

Then she turned.

Then she faced me.

Then I saw the ravages of her face.

I saw the gaping hole in her chest.

I saw how her arm hung loosely from her shoulder.

How three fingers of her other hand were missing.

A bus crashing through a post office would do that to you.

I woke.

In the asylum, no-one can hear you scream. That's because they're all drugged up. Or they don't care. The darkness lay heavy on me, suffocating. I waited for it to smother me, to squeeze the air from my lungs and release me.

But it didn't.