Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick...the endless sound of the clock is starting to get to me. It's making my brain ache. How long have I been here anyway? As I sit in solitude within these barren, white, padded walls, I begin to think of what put me here in the first place. It all started when...

I am dreaming. The only way I come to this conclusion is that I am floating in air, and as far as I know, humans can't fly. That, and I have had this dream the two previous nights. Everything around me is dark; dark and oppressing yet I feel strangely content. Almost as if I know this strange, enveloping, silent darkness wouldn't cause me harm.

The scenery doesn't give me a clue, but I know that I am falling and the feeling is strange, like a thousand feathers caressing my skin, causing pleasurable shivers to plague my body. I'm floating softly down, or up, I can't really tell. Gravity is non-existent.

My feet gently touch a cold, hard floor before a space right in front of me shimmers in luminescence and ripples like disturbed water. I hesitantly reach my hand out to touch the strange phenomenon, but it flashed brightly before settling into a hazy image slowly beginning to clear and sharpen.

I am looking at a busy street in New York City; many business men and women bustling past one another, rudely shoving their way through groups and frowning in annoyance at any hindrance that deterred them from their path. Most of them are wearing dark, depressing shades of black, blue, and gray. It mirrors the mood of workday morning, I reflect.

A rather rambunctious commotion that has nothing to do with these selfish slaves to society, draws my attention. Right outside a Starbucks Café, a middle-aged woman is being harassed by a man dressed in, you guessed it, black. This confrontation isn't about one bumping rudely into the other. No, the man is pointing a gun at her and demanding something.

How come no one is stopping? Why is no one calling the police? Why isn't anyone helping her?!

These thoughts run through my head as I notice a child, no more than six years old, hiding behind the middle-aged woman's legs. I instantly know what will happen. I know what fate will force upon that poor little girl.

Like some macabre play set in slow motion, the man squeezes the trigger and the woman's eyes widen even more in shock. Time seems to freeze right before the bullet crashes into her, taunting me, seeming to say,

"What are you going to do? Why aren't you helping that poor woman? Why?"

I wake up just as the bullet tore through skin and crushed bone as if it weren't there. The whispered words, 'I can't.' hang in the air as I shiver, covered in cold sweat. It was just a dream, but I knew that already, right?

With a sigh, I glance at my alarm clock, the angry red numbers yelling at me through the dark.

4:18. The sky is still dark and the streetlights still flickered outside my window in their unknown rythym.

Wearily, I trudge to the bathroom, my shin becoming re-acquainted with my mysteriously moving furniture. The glare from the bathroom's florescent light hurts my eyes and causes my sallow face to scrunch in an oh-so-attractive scowl. This is the third night in a row I have woken up at exactly 4:18 covered in sweat, who knows what else in the air, to find my furniture had decided that it liked change, frequent, too. It was getting old, but what could I do?

The hot water from the shower does little to wake me up but it did relax muscles I wasn't aware I was tensing. The cool morning air chills my skin as I step out of the shower. Grabbing my old and worn blue terrycloth robe, I go back to my bedroom.

Looking through my closet to find something to wear to work, I come to a startling conclusion. All my clothes are suits in the somber colors of black, blue, gray, or black. Picking my most colorful, a new-ish grey pantsuit, I slip into it, the scent of mothballs invading my nose. Heading back to the bathroom, my hand traces a path against the wall, coming back with flakes of pea-soup green paint. I brush my teeth and pull my hair into a semi-respectable ponytail.

Before leaving my apartment, I grab my purse and look out my window, just now filling with warm light that could only mean sunrise. Too bad all those skyscrapers ruined my view.

I stride down the hall, not bothering to lock my apartment. It's not as if anyone would come to my apartment building to steal anything. The most valuable thing in there was me, and I am leaving.

As soon as I hit the street, I refrain from inhaling the "fresh" morning air; hacking up my lungs doesn't hold too much appeal. My pace is quick and brisk, not because I am energetic or excited, but because my neighborhood is the one you warn your daughter to never go through alone, or at all. This neighborhood hosts the state's highest crime rate. What a lovely place to live.

I soon reach busier streets and relax marginally, my pace quickening even more. If you want to stay alive, you go with the crowd, no matter how fast they travel. However, fighting your way through these types of crowds really teaches you to have a backbone.

Seeing my turn, I force my 5'5" frame to the corner and take a breath as I am finally allowed to breath easier and relax my speed. Checking my watch, I realize that I have plenty of time on my hands, and being as I didn't have breakfast, I might as well go grab a coffee. God only knows I need the caffeine.

I glance around me as I head down the street, looking for a coffee stand. I notice one man scowling at another as they elbow their way towards the subway, looking an awful lot like the ones in my vision. I frown, also noticing a little girl, no more than six, bouncing along by a dark-haired woman. These two are especially familiar. Then I see him, the man in all black, heading toward the woman and her child, completely ignoring the pack of hassled businessmen and women.

For some reason, I rush to where they now stand facing each other, the man with a cold smile on his face and the woman with utter shock on hers. I stand by a bench, out of the flow of traffic and listen to their interaction, knowing deep down what will happen.

"Didn't think you would see me again did you? I wonder why that is, being she is my daughter. Or were you hoping you would never see me again. I wonder at that too." his grin turned malicious.

"Maybe it has something to do with you selling this ring." he pulled an antique silver ring out, set with one of the most amazing blood red rubies I had ever seen.

"I didn't want to! But you see, I lost my job, and I couldn't afford food and Angelique had to eat! Don't you understand?!" she begged frantically, wringing the straps of her purse.

"Yes, I do understand. That is why my proposition should go over well with you as it benefits Angelique." he said her name with affection before turning cold eyes on the extremely nervous woman.

"I take Angelique, and you forget about her. My new wife will be her mother, and soon, Angelique will have a proper family, like she should." he states this in an almost agreeable manner, not acting as if he just told a woman to give up her child.

"No! You cannot do that! She is mine! You can't possibly believe that I would give up my daughter to some monster as yourself?" the woman yells fiercely at him.

'Don't do that, woman. Don't make him angry, give him your daughter and you'll live. Why is no one calling the police?' I yell frantically in my head. My voice is dead however, as any hope I have for this woman vanishes when the man pulls out his gun. My arm attempts to reach out to her before I hear the gun go off, getting thrown back in shock.

I stand there, my new-ish grey pantsuit covered in blood and brain matter as the little Angelique screams for her mommy. The man grabs her and runs away, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. All around me voices are screaming.

"Save her!"

"Help her! Do something!"

"What happened? Where are the cops?"

Some nameless suit turns to me, yells in my face, "Why didn't you help her? Why did you just stand there? Your COWARD! YOU SELFISH SLAVE TO SOCIETY!"

I collapse in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to pull my hair out. Make the voices go away! Make them stop! Please, please, PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!

"I can't. She's dead. I can't, no, no, no-weak. I...stop...can't...coward." I repeat over and over and over.

The next six months are torture. I start getting more and more visions that always come true, no matter what I do to prevent them. I am losing my mind. I feel it slowly slipping away each time I have another vision. They aren't so nice now, either. Instead of the darkness making me feel content, it suffocates me, closing in on me at all times. The soft feathers turn to hands with yellowed, decaying nails, pulling at my clothes, my hair, my skin.

What's worse, I start feeling physical pain from these visions. There won't be a single mark marring my skin yet I could feel them: cuts and bruises, brands and welts, scabs, stabs, gashes, lacerations, beatings. Whatever happens to the victims in my visions, happens to me as well.

I had quit my job the month before and my water had been the first to go, soon followed by my gas and electricity. My apartment smells worse than before and I haven't showered properly in 3 weeks.

I sit on the rat-eaten sofa and rock back and forth, staring at the opposite wall full of peeling paint and unidentifiable stains. I glance at my feet, my stringy hair falling in my face. I then glance at my hands, chapped and grime encrusted, they seem to want to wring the life out of the other.

My vision feels hazy and I yawn, the light seems to dim and I fall unconscious.

It's like the first time I had a vision, all feather soft caresses, comforting darkness, gentle falling down, or up, I still don't know.

Instead of the single wall of shimmering light, I see many little orbs, dancing around, fluttering like butterflies. I stare at them until I realize that they are moments from my life. Most of them anyway, there are some that I don't recognize.

I watch one that shows me as a little girl, playing in one of the many fields surrounding my family's farm back in Colorado. My light curly hair is a mess and there is dirt on my cheek and chin. I know that at that moment in life, I was the happiest I ever was, ever will be. That orb dims and I stare in amazement at the tiny flecks of light, dancing across my skin.

Seeing one that hosts a blank image, I catch it, holding it tenderly in the palm of my hand. It flashes before a movie starts to play. I see me walking down my neighborhood. I'm walking fast as per usual, but this time I look...scared. Then the image pans out and I see a black shape following me. I can't make out a face but as soon as a flickering streetlight reflects off of the aluminum bat, I know who it is.

It's him, the cause for my moving to New York City, hoping the vastness would throw him off my trail.

This was the man who had happened upon my family's innocent farm house back in Colorado.

This was the man who had killed my mother, father, brother, and little sister. Now he was after me.

"You can't hide from me." he taunts in a laughing voice.

My vision self starts running in a futile attempt to escape. This causes him to laugh harder. Of course he loves to chase his prey, what predator doesn't?

All too soon, he catches up to me and I know all is lost. Something trips my vision self and I am sent sprawling to the ground, my right shoulder immediately flaring up in pain after taking the brunt of the fall. That little flare is nothing compared to the beating with the bat he gives me. He even pulls out a pocket knife, slashing any visible skin. Everywhere burns and aches and none too soon, he is standing over me, bat held at the ready.

"Any last words?"

Six Years Later

"Such a pity that she hasn't improved a bit. Of all people, she deserves it." a motherly looking nurse murmurs to another.

"Yes, it is a shame nothing Dr. Marlow tries has worked. All his other patients seem to being doing much better. It's odd really. So curious..." the white-haired nurse trailed off before continuing her rounds.

"Yes, very curious." the remaining nurse parroted before heading back to the front desk to sign out for the day.

The patient they had been gazing at was sitting against a thickly cushioned wall, rocking back and forth mumbling incoherently.

"Help her. Save her. Coward. Slave. No! Selfish Society. Can't! Dead..."