I think once I was a girl. Maybe yesterday, maybe a century ago, but once upon a time I think I was a girl. I have a few memories of my time as a human. Once of a sun dappled back yard with browned grass in the shape of the broken kiddie pool in the shed; I think I broke it. I'm not sure. The last memory is of a whoosh! then a craaaaack! then nothing.

There are no memories here. When nothing changes, when it is always blackness how can I differentiate between the past and the future? Maybe I'm fifty years ago, or a billion light years from now. If I think about this too much I think I'll drive myself mad. I have on a daily (in the loosest sense of the word) basis, absolutely no sense of who, what, or where I am. If I was once a girl, what am I now?

Something's different! Something's actually different! It's like the black is finally wearing thin, letting in shafts of light and color, little scribbles of noise. From now on I will be able to differentiate time by 'before' and 'after' the change. Finally I have a landmark to guide me, and I will not again feel so lost. The change feels slow now that I has begun and I wonder how long it will take, and what the results will be.

I have started to measure my time by strips. Hours, minutes and seconds hold no importance here without a physical marker to help me keep track. Strips started at the top of my blackness, they come away like the slow peeling of a banana, revealing a blur of noise, color and light. I am wary though, these blurred strips define the dark that was once endless. I cannot move through the color strips like I can the black, it is like they're made of very clear glass. I am wary because a cage of color is still a cage.

It's been eight strips and the picture, or maybe the glass, is getting clearer. The colors blur, the noise changes in ways I cannot qualify but that suggests movement, change in the scenery. It won't be long before it's complete, maybe four or five more strips and while I am eager, I must also be afraid because I constantly retreat into the part of my dark that remains intact. Soon I won't have that option, now the strips of color outnumber the black.

There is on black strip left and I am standing on it. I am trembling because it feels like the last sliver holding me aloft above a chasm. I see it begin to peel away, folding under itself until it is doubled over and then it is gone like I am gone.

Coming into existence again is an almost unbearable rush. A pounding resonates deep within me and there is so much sensation I have never felt before. I feel the draw and pull of fabric against her skin, the tingle of air her movement causes, her hair hanging from her scalp, her eyelashes tickling her cheek, her nails growing, her blood pumping through every individual vein, her heart thumping, the tasted of the air as it drifts against her tongue and down her windpipe. It's too much and I want back into the blackness so much, but it does not come and slowly, slowly, it is less brutal and I begin to orient myself. Finally, the loud, alarming noises begin to identify themselves and it becomes apparent that she's being yelled at. Her vision is so blurry because it's obscured by tears.

"It's been months, don't you think it's about time you rejoined the world? How detached you are scares me. You're acting like a zombie." The woman gave one of the fakest smiles I have ever seen. It's supposed to come across as pitying, I think. I can feel the anger swelling in the girl as everything in her constricts to try and control it.

"I'm not, I'm fine." The desperation in her to believe this is hard to bear. I retreat away from the fight. Although my world is now defined by this strange girl's being, I am still in control of where I move within it. I supposed being what I am (whatever that is) gives me an intuition about these things and it only takes a little bit of thought to worm my way into her memories.

I don't go too deep, I only want to see what they're fighting about. I could get lost the in the pathways of someone else's memories and when I'm searching for my own there's no need to take on the load of someone else's. There's a strong blankness a few months back that I cannot pass, but before that she does seem like half her memories are hazy and recalled in a half-light, like she's been half-asleep for most of her life after that blankness. Floating back to the conversation, her vision has become clearer and I can get a better look at the contorted face of her tormentor. Mother. The word floats up out of no where and some how I cannot connect it to this red-faced woman. This can't be a mother, although I'm not sure why. I just know this isn't how one is supposed to be.

And finally the girl and I, since I have no choice but to go where she goes, turn around and thump away. A door is opened, the cold metal turning against her palm, the flex of her fingers and the muscles in her forearm as she pulls it towards her, the slight resistance and then give of the door opening, who knew such a mundane thing as opening a door could be so sensual? Cold, fresh air with the slight scent of wet and new things hits her nose and she takes a deep breath that tickles me to the point of pain as she walks outside and slams the door behind her. I can feel the house shake under the impact of that slam, but she takes no notice.

I hate the way she only focuses on the ground and the way she is crying again, blurring our vision. There are interesting things on the ground, forgotten trash, scraps of colorful but faded paper, animal feces, patchy, balding lawns just recovering from the oppressive snow, some of which still lingers. But soon it becomes boring, like watching a conveyor belt move by.

I don't recognize it for the danger it represents, and her eyes are so blurred by tears, she's not aware of the lip created by the uneven sidewalk. But aware or not, her foot still catches on it and she trips. The swoop sensation of her fall is sickening enough, but the impact of the cold, hard ground with her palms cheeks and stomach is horrendously worse. The pain explodes like fire across her cheek, her palms have been skinned and the breath knocked from her body and it's so much worse for me.

I realize I've done something wrong when she crashes to the ground.

I wake up before her. We're in a white room and there's the sharp sound of beeping nearby. The smell of this place nearly burns my nose it's so antiseptic, medicinal and clean. And yet how white and colorless everything is appeals to me on a basic level so that I am immediately more at ease, almost as relaxed as I used to be in my blackness.

I miss it, I realize. Despite the boredom, the endlessness, the sense of lost that constantly plagued me, I realize I prefer it so much more than this violent and abrasive place. I try and call it back, I close my eyes and imagine it swathing itself around me, but when I open my eyes we're still in the hospital.

I hadn't even realized the girl was awake, but she isn't thinking of much, just complaining about the mild discomfort of the I.V inserted in the top of her hand. I roll my eyes, she's such a baby. Although I have to admit the reason I didn't notice was because we were having similar thoughts. She sits up and starts pulling out the various connections she has to the machines surrounding her with a finesse that suggested she's done this before.

We're both incredibly familiar with this situation. For me, it's the colorlessness and unchanging surroundings that comfort and soothe me. She hates it. She's been here too much and the clean white walls and pale sheets seem to represent for her every negative experience she's had with doctors. And as light-speed recollections flit through her mind, I can't honestly blame her. I don't want to leave, I considered screaming again since it seemed to have such an effect for her, but honestly I'm afraid of what will happen to me if she gets too badly damaged.

Other people come in, and my peace and cause of nostalgia is destroyed while the girl repeats over and over again that "I'm fine, can I please go home?" Her tone grates at my ears and if I had hands I'm pretty sure I'd slap her. These people all have worried expressions on there faces, clearly they are simply concerned for her and she returns their genuine emotion with rudeness and contempt. I cannot recall anyone ever worrying about me.

I don't think anyone is even aware I exist. Not even this girl whose mind I find myself drifting in. Loneliness hits me with a punch to my gut and I want to reach out to these people who care about her, I want to wrap my arms around them, although I don't really understand the significance of squeezing them with my limbs.

Distracted by my sudden acute depression, I don't come back to take toll of her senses before we leave, and when I'm aware again, we're staring out some glass that reflects her sullen face palely. The scenery is passing by so quickly it's making me sick and at first I can't understand what's going on. She's sitting, how are we moving so very fast? It's only when another car passes us that I comprehend and calm down. I turn away from her eyes though, it's making me sick and I'm not sure how she'll react to my nausea.

It seems only to amplify her own, and she has to bend over her knees. Whoever's in the front seat asks quickly if she's going to throw up, and I feel the burn of bile at the back of her throat. It makes me want to cry out again, it hurts so badly. I can't see who is speaking however, since her eyes are trained to the floor of the car. There are empty wrappers, forgotten mittens without pairs, pencils, straws, old toys. The slightly stale and sour smell here is offensive and I want so desperately to be at the hospital again the only thing that gives me pause is how much she can take. Already my occupation seems to have taken a massive toll on her. I only hope if I'm going to be here any length of time, she'll adjust and things will be more comfortable for the both of us.

"-you okay honey? Do we need to pull over?" Her mother has twisted around in her seat, a more concerned and doting expression than I've seen before. I realize I've only just tuned in, and that dull murmur outside my feeling ill was their voices.

"I'm fine." She utters in a snappish tone. She is entirely fed up with that question and the many shapes and forms it comes in.

"You look a little green."

"I'm fine, stop pestering me."

"Do you want your window open?"

"If I wanted it open I would do it myself. I'm fine."

The mother sighs and turns to face the front. Her and the driver, the father I assume, exchange a look and I feel the girl roll her eyes. This doesn't make sense to me. The mother is expressing love and worry on her daughter's behalf, and the daughter rebukes it.

It's so fake.

I start, because although I know she can't hear me, her thoughts run so close to my own it's as if she's answering me. I sit back and urge her to continue. I am not disappointed.

In ten seconds she'll be mad about something. Just watch. It never lasts.

We both sit tight then, our sickness fading. I wait to see this predicted transformation in the mother and she simply watches the scenery flit passed the window. When it does happen, it seems like the only catalyst has been the passing of time.

"If you hadn't run off like that, you wouldn't have ending up in the hospital. You know you're still…fragile."

"I am not."

"Then explain why you passed out in the middle of the sidewalk. Where were you even going?"

"I don't know, it was weird, it was like…" She trailed off and blushed slightly, turned her head back to the window.

"Like what?" Her mother pressed, and both of us feel a spurt of anger. She, because she's embarrassed by her reasoning, I, because I know what's coming and that I am to blame.

"Like I was overwhelmed by the pain. It was just a scrape, I know, but still…" She can sense both her parent's dubious reaction and so she rushed into a justification, "I know it sounds weird, I know. But I felt absolutely fine until I fell and then it was like it was too much…"

Oops.

Mother seems to consider this for a moment and then shrugs, "I suppose if it got your heart beating fast enough. Would you watch where you're walking?

"Fine, fine.

"Just be careful."
"Okay! Okay! Whatever, just-please-stop talking."

Mother huffs, turns on the radio, and the rest of the car ride back to their family home is maintained in sporadic and banal chatter. When we get there, she bolts out of the car. I'm surprised when she doesn't bow down to start kissing the lawn in utter gratitude. Not that I'm not happy to have the scenery return to a regular speed. We have to wait for mother to unlock the door before she brushes past her rudely and stomps up the stairs.

"You go rest honey!" Mother calls after her, like nothing is wrong. "That's fine."

Her room is completely lacking in personality. I'm surprised, even my blackness had a certain comfort about it and I could easily project my imagination on the endless space. But this is worse even than the hospital. There's a rough wooden dresser pressed against the left wall and a rough wooden bed opposite it, and that's it. There's nothing on the dresser, there's a dirty laundry hamper in one corner and a bookcase full of her mother's cook books and old children's books. Her bed has a floral print bedspread. There's no pictures, nothing to indicate it's not a guest room that's fallen into disuse.

She closes the door behind her and sits on the bed. From under her pillow she slips a picture of a smiling girl hugging the mother. A sister? No, there's a sense of stranger about the girl in the picture. She isn't recognized.

That was me.

Again, I nearly yelp in my surprise. She isn't much for vocalizing her thoughts like this.

Before the accident.

What accident? My curiosity is pricked once again, but I am disappointed. She tucks the picture away once more and lies down, asleep with in seconds, leaving me to stare at that impenetrable blankness once more.