“Is this a …two…..way mirror?” I could barely get the words out of my mouth without vomiting last night’s spicy ramen. The aftertaste of the onion gave my mind a half a millimeter vacation from reality. “They can’t see you, Tara. Now, do you or do you not see the perpetrator?” Perpetrator. The word stung. Perpetrator? Really? More, like “Murderer.” Just say it. He murdered my soul. Corrupted my internal being, robbed me of my own fucking flesh, and spat me out like the fourth of July firework finale. And, he will continue to be the kidnapper of my time. I dug my fingernails into my palm, let a slight breath escape my wintery chapped lips and very, very reluctantly gruntled, “Number 3. It’s him. The 3rd one.”
I rubbed my eyes, rolled to my left side, and asked number 3 to turn the light on so that I can wake to prepare his coffee.