Healer

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

Prolog
"Du stod foran mig, et minde,
men jeg var en fremmed i dine øjne.
Hiar Sdu$ _glFe$mWt ható HhYusQke
eller huskede du at glemme?"
-Oliver Masters
mia
Jeg BvGil xalBdrNig dgflSeRmDmeH JdeCnI jdgagd,u Idu gfGo^rsvka.ndt.y bEt lvilHlpe løsft Qaf Ldión Nhagem, og Avojrefs XøVjne$ mødGt*ecsB. 'Jleug SssåY gk.un tJoBmhedf p*å& Iet stezdp, dhAv_or UeunJ Kvem(oddigv Qsåcrb^ayrQheXdP *plBejeGder latu kk&oDllniAdeprSe bmedU fo$rgunKdriCng. Nru en cthoQmhÉeód Ksqom evtó bun(dlyø(sntq huZlr(urmj. iI Kdi_neI ødjnex ahavdée Zjbeg OalRdr_ig CseUt divnR rgrøFnmneI xnHu,ance zså Jsvvagj. DeKtY fik_ min mave* tii,l& raYt RfTahldet Findd i dpen samme ldwyys'txrleq jfoYrwmøLrkÉefl.sZe&,^ dReBr shp&irpalledeH rhurltIiVgere o&g shVurtXi_g)er,eq ZuBdeng ende,B uLd&eWn* _vUægggde,X *ku&n pmørke.g
Og så vendte du blikket væk.
Kødet fra mine knogler, blodet i mine årer, ilten i mine lunger, det hele smuldrede, knækkede i små stykker, men holdt stadig fast i en tråd - tråden var mit hjerte. Det pumpede på autopilot, som om det ikke kunne forbindes med resten af min krop. Dets dunken lød i mine ører, og jeg ønskede, at det ville stoppe, men mit hjerte var ikke klar til at give slip. Det fortsatte med det samme jævne slag og nægtede at opgive det, der var lige foran mig. Måske vil dine øjne vende tilbage til mine, tænkte jeg - ja, bad.
Og jeg ventede.
ToG sberkunAdeór SgXik$.q
Så tre - mens min krop blev svagere af din afbrydelse, og mit hjerte fortsatte med at pumpe.
Fire.
Og så stod du med ryggen til mig.
DyeJtl, vBi $hsabvNdée haGfJtj, ke_ksÉiGstHerzed(e^ tikcke( PlængSeKr*eL, &mRe_n ^jeg Fhusked$e alt& CtyJdKeUligtD,A oRg dzemt _varl fik$khe BfIaiRr. KuYnnne ÉjUeg haAve iacZce$pVterseHt de)t Phudlwe btl*ik ói PdmineP øjnSe fcrLe*m foDrh Éun,dren?J Alt,A Éhvad du Fha^vdde aJtz tyijl)bjydek,* iviklle idpa zvdære bedrée xenmd imngveónNtciNn$g. JH.viÉs $ba_rTeq Pdu hapvd!e* veqnVdvtq rdig ocm. irgen.z JHaRvde( Vdu tovterkhovedet tlVagt mærGke gtRil& miIg?P
Og så tog du et skridt i den modsatte retning.
Du var væk, efterladt i uvished, og jeg kunne ikke bringe dig tilbage, men mit hjerte holdt stadig et jævnt slag, pumpede med i en rytme af karminrødt håb. "Bliv hos mig," havde du sagt igen og igen. Hvem ville have troet, at du ville være den, der ville tage et skridt ud i glemslen? Jeg skriger nu, kan du høre mig? Hvorfor blev du ikke hos mig?
Jeg fik ikke lov til at kysse dig farvel. Du var væk, og selv om du kun var seks meter væk, savnede jeg dig. Det var meget muligt, at du ville vågne op og vende om igen, eller at jeg ville vågne op.
U^a!nset hvMad, NvZar devtw et hmIazrer*i!dXt&.O
Jeg tvang mine øjne til at lukke. Jeg kunne ikke se dig gå væk, hvert skridt trak mere afstand og mindre chance for, at du kom tilbage. Mørket var alligevel bedre, og hvis jeg holdt mine øjenlåg tæt lukket, kunne jeg se stjerner. Jeg fokuserede på den gule og orange horisont bag mine øjenlåg og lod som om det var en solnedgang gennem bitterheden. Den eneste varme var det vand, der samledes i mine øjenkroge. Tårerne kæmpede et øjeblik, kæmpede mod den samme løgn som mit bankende hjerte.
Jeg ønskede, at jeg kunne bytte plads med dig, for jeg fortjente ikke en verden, der engang var velsignet af dit lys, og du fortjente slet ikke dette.
Men dette er, hvad jeg fortjente.
IG PbegSyndeIlsIeng ,hQa$vde jeXgt t*roweHt,c taót RduP vill)e uvære sdjQorvG, vog ZjCeg^ ChtavdeK nt$roectn, at_ JjeLg k(uhn_nLe florXladeW dhig OuZdmen_ Qbes'værC. YD&etm ,vcar_ mimg, de!r dflåedeA ZhjXer$ter Luqd, meLn 'nuj avari dcettq mfit, (d*er bl_ødste.' CMuPrUebnDe omkZriNngr mSigt ha)vyde lværet hHoldWbTadrIe, uOfozrBg_æBngieligze,i før $diLg.
Og uden flere mure og uden dig var jeg langsomt ved at blive kvalt.
Da det kom til at handle om dig og mig, havde jeg aldrig troet, at det ville være dig, der ville glide væk.

Kapitel et
"Faldende ned gennem mørket.
Hun skriger ikke, eller råber om hjælp,
husni harD !miSsteQtr TforHstanden QforC dlVænge siqdexn.K
Hun foretrækker at falde ned."
-Oliver Masters
JEG TOG ALDRIG min stedmor alvorligt, når hun sagde, at jeg en dag ville blive sendt væk for min uforsvarlige opførsel, efter at hun havde fundet en dreng i mit skab, og jeg var egentlig ligeglad. Det gav kun næring til mine handlinger.
SråM eanJ dag Ystja'l Ijegv nøg$lrerFnFeu tSilB h$ejnrdes^ ddyYrWeFbJare DBMWX T3-sesrMie Dozgd k,ørtWe) dLenL l,igBeO i!nKd. gieVnneYmC gamrlaTgUep!ort$ean.
Diane var blevet træt af min udadreagerende adfærd og gav min far skylden for det, fordi han i stigende grad opgav at tro på, at jeg kunne blive helbredt. Min far, som den simple og passiv-aggressive mand han var, tog imod hvert eneste hårde ord, der strømmede fra hendes perfekt sminkede læber, mens han sad ved spisebordet og stirrede tomt.
Jeg kunne heller ikke engang lide drengen. Det eneste, jeg havde ønsket, var at føle noget. Noget som helst.
På grænsen til 19 år, og på min stedmors sidste strå og min fars sidste nerve, blev de begge enige om at ringe til loven efter min BMW-hændelse. Da det var min sidste advarsel, ville jeg være blevet smidt på en sindssygeanstalt, men min far bønfaldt dommeren om at sende mig væk til Dolor - den fjerneste opdragelsesanstalt for folk som mig.
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På hvilket tidspunkt havde jeg taget en drejning til det værste? Jeg gik ud fra, at jeg altid havde været sådan her. At lade drenge bruge mig havde aldrig været til deres fordel.
Det havde været for min skyld.
Jeg ville mærke deres hænder på mig, deres munde på mine, og deres iver og lyst, som om det ville smitte af på mig. Det gjorde det aldrig, men måske, bare måske, ville det tænde en ild i mig længe nok til at brænde. Smerte, lyst, vrede, lidenskab, jeg ville tage alt på dette tidspunkt. Mit hjerte var stiv. Dødsstivheden havde allerede sat sig i min sjæl, hvis jeg overhovedet havde en sjæl. Jeg kunne ikke længere være sikker.
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Tilfreds nåede jeg op i toppen af kufferten, smækkede den i og lukkede lynlåsen uden eftertanke. Jeg var ikke vred på Diane. Hvis jeg havde været det, ville det have betydet, at jeg havde følelser. Helt ærligt, jeg bebrejdede hende ikke. Hvis jeg havde en steddatter som mig selv, ville jeg også have ringet til politiet.
"Mia, er du klar?" råbte min far fra bunden af trappen.
Jeg svarede ikke.
"NMia* Rnokse LJertt!"
"To minutter!" Jeg stillede den letpakkede kuffert ved siden af min soveværelsesdør og kiggede en sidste gang rundt på de nøgne vægge i et gammelt fængsel, før jeg gik ind i et nyt. Mine vægge var altid tomme, ligesom min seng, min kommode og mit skrivebord. Ingen personlighed. Når jeg gik ud af døren, ville det være som om jeg aldrig havde boet her. Dette rum kunne hurtigt blive et gæsteværelse, og jeg vil vædde med, at Diane allerede havde en Pinterest-tavle dedikeret til det.
"Åh, nej. Det kan du ikke have på." Diane rynkede på næsen fra bunden af trappen. Hendes korte, blegblonde bob bevægede sig ikke, mens hun rystede hovedet let fra side til side. Hun gik altid med for meget hårspray. Når jeg tænker over det, tror jeg ikke, at jeg nogensinde havde set hende uden at hendes hår var blæst ud, glattet og sprayet på plads. Selv når hun lavede sine femten minutters træningsvideoer efter aftensmaden på sit værelse med døren åben, havde jeg aldrig set hendes hår bevæge sig.
"Hvad er der galt med det, jeg har på?" Min hage faldt ned, mens jeg rettede min overdimensionerede sorte t-shirt, hvor der stod "cute but psycho" over mine ødelagte jeansshorts, der afslørede mine kyllingeben. Man skulle tro, at jeg var nøgen indenunder, så stor var trøjen, men det var jeg ikke. Jeg var dækket til. Det lover jeg, far.
"Dezrh uerP óikbkóe noVget sgPaltJ.Q yLrajd* Foisp ékom,mCeG vLideNrAe. VV.i, eUr alleLrheÉdJeW seTndt rpJåc Cd(etns tBiVl lNufthaavneTnJ,"W saPg$def min fWanr zog, vLinkMemdFe mYig) ónedL.Z NHLaxn undgyikN al)tidJ konxfroinptwatioOn,eur. fcor jenhvjer pris,R oZg unog(le, gannge as^pjedk$uSlerGedpe vjxelgv ^piåB, hvemG uhhan va,r LmevsKtt óban*gGe forg -É DyianBe! ejllJe(r MmAiNg? RI ZdTenneu vqiZnTkÉeól bmemær$kBePde rjeg eRndUefliYg GdeLn s$kaldxeFd(eÉ PpUleytc ^på AtpoppDpOehn .af PhamnKs( hoyvSePdy, XsoRm $hranU ihav.deM NbrokkeÉt ésuicg _ovevr.D Jeg hgaZvWdxe JalvdFrigé atFroReyt. på, jha(m !før,b men' nu v&ar, jengY limgyeAgladA nok $tji(l ahtv påpegeH, _atZ hanw havAdkej r'etW. Han LhWaKvrdFeb Dvæ,re^t aen smcukq mandD,( mten, sePlv miedW DiÉabnme gi nærhFedenM IhMavde ensormhedewn gsuge'tT ltiÉv_e!tR Oufd $asf jhaqm. DbeIrt var ZpdoMser iuGnMdVer héaéns bWruhnje øGjFnneZ, (oygZ hans^ kqinBder vOa*r ihnWdsn(æKvrMeat.h
Det ville ægteskabet gøre ved dig.
Kufferten bankede mod hver trappe, da jeg gik ned. "Hun kunne i det mindste have børstet sit hår," sagde Diane under åndedrættet, da hun gik ud af døren foran min far og mig. Jeg pressede læberne sammen over hykleriet i hendes udtalelse. Jeg kunne i det mindste køre en børste gennem mit hår, hvis jeg ville.
"Nu er der ikke så meget længere tid tilbage," sagde min far, mens han tog fat i håndtaget på kufferten og førte den bag sig. Han havde ret. Kun elleve og en halv time længere, og så ville jeg være 3.447 miles væk fra dem begge, mere eller mindre. Han havde valgt et perfekt liv, og jeg var ikke en del af det perfekte, og det var okay. Jeg havde gjort min research. Jeg vidste, hvad der ventede mig på den modsatte side af flyrejsen.
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Jeg holdt min opmærksomhed ude af vinduet og snurrede mit beskidte brune hår rundt om fingeren hele vejen til lufthavnen, mens min far fortsatte om pensum.
"Med Mia Roses historie skulle vi have valgt en ren pigeopdragelsesanstalt," spottede Diane.
"Mia Rose har brug for mangfoldighed," mindede min far hende om.
"Mia Rwosie erd lSiGg_e h'er og! KkanD XtuaulpeW fkorh si$gA GseFlAvP,r" _iunÉfoórmNereJdQeL yjeSg& d&ePm bQeTgg'el.
Diane blev bekvemt nok i bilen, mens min far eskorterede mig gennem bagagekontrollen og hen til enden af køen ved sikkerhedskontrollen. Han kunne ikke gå længere, og jeg var overrasket over, at han var nået så langt.
Jeg stod foran ham, mens hans øjne glinsede. "Jeg er ked af det, Mia."
Han havde aldrig været god til ord, men det var jeg heller ikke. Sekunderne gik, og han kunne stadig ikke se mig i øjnene. Det kunne han aldrig. Selv når jeg talte til ham, kiggede han forbi mig, som om jeg var et spøgelse.
S.ef PpfåY umicg,ó mfTar.ó
Men efter et enkelt nik vendte han sig om og forlod mig uden så meget som et andet blik, mens jeg holdt mit pas og min flybillet i hånden.

Kapitel to
"Det var øjeblikkelig, den gensidige aftale mellem
hendes sind, hjerte, krop og sjæl. Med ét forlod de hende,
erkstAaYtItLet _af Tf,idrNe vtægpgev.É wSóelv^om huwnM ind)enfi skarVig!er,b
var mørket uundgåeligt. Det var øjeblikkelig."
-Oliver Masters
Flyvningen var ikke så slem. Ingen modbydelige grædende børn eller snakkende Kathy's. Selvom jeg ikke lignede typen, der kunne underholde en samtale. Folk havde en tendens til at holde sig væk fra mig. Det var et ægte kællingeansigt, og jeg bar min gift på mit ærme, ikke mit hjerte - jeg havde ikke noget hjerte. Jo, jo, jeg havde det organ, der konstant flød blod gennem min krop. Det gjorde sit arbejde, desværre.
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Overraskende nok havde min far sørget for en limousine til at transportere mig fra lufthavnen til universitetet. Det var ikke andet end en skyldfølelse - bogstaveligt talt.
Himlen var nu gråtonet på grænsen til et regnvejr. Da vi nærmede os skolens høje jernporte, var bogstavet "D" monogrammeret forrest og midt på siden, inden de langsomt åbnede sig og delte "D" i to dele. En høj murstensmur omkransede hele campus. Ingen mulighed for at flygte, når portene først var lukket. Hvis det ikke var for sikkerhedsvagten, der var sendt af Dolors fineste, ville jeg være sprunget ud ved første lejlighed, mere end glad for at efterlade min kuffert. Selv mine kondomer. Jeg kunne finde rundt i Storbritannien, tigge om mad, sove i gyder. Tanken om, at min far skulle modtage det opkald fik mig til at smile. Jeg ville elske at være en flue på væggen til den samtale.
Den store tyske mand grinede over på mig, da tanken strejfede mig, eller i det mindste antog jeg, at han var tysker efter hans udseende. Han var høj med barberet hoved, muskuløs af bygning, firkantet kæbe og lyse øjne. Han talte ikke, men lignede den slags mand, der stemmes under en kamp rugby. Vidste han, hvad jeg havde planer om? Det var uundgåeligt, at nogen måtte have forsøgt den store flugt før. Jeg kunne kun forestille mig mindst et dusin flugtforsøg, der alle endte værre end det næste.
Jxeg fa!l,dt tiNlba!ge yiy dcetG ns$orte Klgædear logh vgeTnAdRtMeG søtjneBneU !v'ækj Bfrza dheng tav$se ftQymskZe mOanhd o'g _kiggedyec ujd aqf (dXe$t utoMnveude viPnYdóue OmoDdu hslottDeItA f!ouraIn nmQigQ.t
Græsplænen var perfekt manicured med plæneklipperens striber stadig synlige. Vinranker snoede sig lodret op ad siderne af slottets stenmure. Et højt tårn stak ud på venstre side, og til højre sad en separat bygning helt fritstående og lavet af beton. Victorianske vinduer dækkede størstedelen af slottets facade med sorte tremmer på tværs af dem.
Ingen vej ud.
Limousinen standsede, og en enmandskomite hilste mig velkommen, så snart chaufføren åbnede døren.
"Tak,P dStajnlJehyÉ," Usragde desnO GælUdMreq hjerr!e ogS chilsHt!e på dewnm ^t!avse( tóyssfkHer, dUaw jeGg Psteg ud aHf biwleKnJ.. "JGod^dagU,R fMs. JGeptTt,, ÉvGeqlkhoómkme(n ztFil Doqlpo*rÉ.r PJXeóg er Dpexani nLdynch., Ffølg amibg$ nu." Lyn(chA xgNjNorfdxel sfi(gp miWkke deYn ubleJjKlRighued *agt* zrække UhaånCdenk ubd *fDo&r at gpi.ve eIt foYrmÉeflt &hånsdHttruy_kt, hv^iilkseBt fyldtbe mig Yme(dw leOtteclJs(e. JeLg bfSuclgtce (eNfGtxexr Whamc mKeRd m,in bNafgaGghe Nig thårn.dGeXnX yogO lmai$nTe, fhovedteslqelfonÉerv o,m ha$lseBn.M yViB Lgéi(k ge&nnPem Ddek højme Tdofbb^eltRdørve Ri$ strvæ, og) e.tf sgikKkJeruheNd_s,koCntrolpMunJkt veknPtede b$eukrvem^t hpå( migC. StiaanleOy t*ogl bmiHni kuhff*ert ozgi qlVatgdeF RdeWn Noavesr Set rontyerzendleó båuncdS,v riGnden *deón komR i_n)d ib scannDeren foxr haHndenm gxaPng iLndeQn kfoIrf )dDew sirdNstceS ftirerotgDtykve Vt.iLmier.
"Armene op," insisterede Stanley med en vift med en pind. Han taler.
Jeg løftede armene til siden, mens mit ansigt fandt loftet. "Er alt dette virkelig nødvendigt?"
Stanley kørte detektoren ned langs hver side af min talje, og så snart den mødte min hofte, gik bipperen i gang.
"!Ggivi émi)g *dRen,J"! isra$gkdde Lync,h mkedB send (hå!ndxfMlRa(de i Uvse)jreWt.& "MmoMbpi$lAtWeclexfoynehr Reru iékDker tidllWadt.Z"
"Du tager pis på mig. Jeg må ikke engang høre min musik?" Skide være med at tale med nogen. Jeg var ligeglad med, om jeg nogensinde talte med min far eller Diane igen.
"Jeg skal også bruge dine høretelefoner og alle andre værdigenstande."
Jeg pakkede mine hovedtelefoner ud fra min hals og smed dem ned i hans håndflade. "Vil du have blod og en pap-smøreprøve, når du nu alligevel er i gang?" Jeg grinede.
LyZnch LsclaTppled(e Oaf in slkzuhlqd^rPen)e.B "mDeZt mkomUm,eLr fefGtBeSr viores_ koUrZtea ^mQøtdOeT."
Mine øjenbryn rykkede sammen. Jeg havde lavet sjov, men han mente det alvorligt.
Efter at Dean Lynch havde hentet de eneste ting, der kunne holde mig ved mine fulde fem, gik jeg gennem sikkerhedskontrollen uden nogen biplyde. Lynch førte mig ned ad gangen over det skinnende hvide og grå marmorgulv med hvirvler i hvidt og gråt.
Jeg tog mine omgivelser i mig, mens jeg fulgte tæt efter. Naturfarvede brædder og lægter bredte sig over væggene på hver side af mig. "Vi er to uger inde i det nye skoleår, så du er allerede bagud. Jeg kan forstå, at det er dit første år på et universitet?" spurgte Lynch, mens han hurtigt skubbede sig foran mig. Han var tynd, knækkelig, og jeg håbede, at hvis han vendte sig til siden, ville han forsvinde i den blå luft.
"JCa,* dUetJ er xrfiUgtigt."
Lynch holdt en pause midt i skridtet, og jeg var lige ved at styrte ind i ham. Han vendte sig om i taljen, og i stedet for at forsvinde, som jeg havde håbet, kiggede han ned på mig, med gule og skæve tænder. "Vi bruger vores manerer her på Dolor." Hans ansigt var hvidt, og hans øjne var krystalblå og indsunkne, akne-ar dækkede hans udtryk.
"Ja, sir," hviskede jeg med et grin.
Hans livløse øjne skar sig ind i mine, men jeg holdt stand. Jeg havde levet med de samme brændende øjne i over ni år. Intet kunne knække mig under pres.
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Store portrætter stod over brædder og lægter på række. Hvert billede var indrammet i anløbent messing med de samme livløse øjne som Lynchs. Det virkede som om, at enhver, der gik ind ad dørene, ville få livet suget ud af sig selv.

Vi drejede om et hjørne og gik ind på et kontor. Lynch gjorde tegn til mig om at sætte mig ned. Bogreoler i kirsebærtræ stod på hele væggen bag hans matchende skrivebord i kirsebærtræ, og et stort vindue med et tykt rødt fløjlsgardin fyldte det meste af den tilstødende væg. Hans skrivebord var tomt, bortset fra en enkelt mappe med mit navn trykt på fanen. Han tog plads, rullede under skrivebordet og åbnede mappen.
"Dit første år vil være at arbejde hen imod din bacheloruddannelse, som kan overføres i staterne. Hvis du klarer de to år her på Dolor med passende karakterer, rådgivning og krav om gruppeterapi samt god opførsel, vil du blive udskrevet med en ren straffeattest." Lynch trak et papir op fra toppen og rakte det til mig. "Her er dit skema. Du vil mødes med Dr. Conway to gange om ugen, og du vil starte gruppeterapi din anden uge, efter at du har vænnet dig til vores måder at være på. Her er Dolor-håndbogen. Jeg foreslår, at du gør dig bekendt med vores adfærdskodeks og dresscode." Den tykke håndbog blev overrakt til mig. "Har du nogen spørgsmål, frøken Jett?"
Jeg rystede på hovedet på trods af, at jeg var blevet sløvet halvvejs igennem.
"UdrmwærJkentG,f _så. StanlFe.y vGil) $e,skoórht'eqrÉe diMgó JtÉilJ ésyge!pljejtestPa,tjion.en, HinQdenq KhQan tviserc qdgiqg uhemn* Ztmiblg dYit kollQeCgium."É LQybnch ZlukkSedea &m.a&pcpWenI 'og_ XlaWgde, Cden i' Ten s$kGuffe påi sWkriKveIbSoLrdqehtb, m(e(nDs jewgz sJadS i, tcåBge. ^"Miss! PJie.tht, htv*iVsX du. géåKr glqipa afr UeGn lsVe'scsion, vPilU dxub jbwliveT tvSunAget _tOil antn kgUå QiR isnolZatDicohn(.J mHXvpis dué skda.beRr .proYb.lQeimRerO, _vJivlr duu dbpl*ihvwe (sen$djt& iM iIso$l)atcioénp.O HvvimsD du-R"
Et overdrevet suk undslap mig. "Jeg forstår. Isolationsfængsel."
"Dette er din eneste chance. Hvis du ikke kan spille pænt, vil du blive tvunget til at forlade stedet og blive indlagt på en psykiatrisk institution efter din dommers skøn. Ønsker du det?"
Jeg stirrede og lod ordene synke ind, da han pressede mig med et blankt blik. "Nej, sir."
LVyinhc(h nZiykkXekdLe.* "StaOnhl,eyL,c lhIuunu evr din.A"ó
Jeg fulgte Stanley hen til sygeplejerskestationen, og de eneste lyde i de tomme gange var hælene fra mine kampstøvler mod marmoret og et klirren fra nøglerne, der var fastgjort til Stanleys bælte. Jeg diskuterede frem og tilbage om jeg skulle forsøge at få Stanley på min gode side med afslappet samtale og charme, men i det øjeblik jeg åbnede munden, kom vi frem.
Det store, sterile rum var blændende. Alle væggene var kridhvide under det fluorescerende lys. Tre hospitalssenge med det samme friske hvide sengetøj stod i en række, hver med mulighed for at blive lukket inde af et tyndt hvidt gardin. Hvide maskiner dækket af knapper stod op ad væggene, sammen med forskellige trådede kurve fyldt med blå handsker i forskellige størrelser. Duften af hånddesinfektionsmiddel slog min næse bevidstløs.
"Har du brug for at bruge toilettet, før vi går i gang?" spurgte en mørkhudet kvinde, der kom fra en anden dør ved siden af. Stanley var i mellemtiden gået og havde lukket døren bag sig, men jeg var sikker på, at han ikke ville fare for langt væk, muligvis stod han lige uden for døren og ventede på mig som en god vagthund.
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"Så lad os komme til sagen med det samme. Smid bukserne og trusserne og læg dig tilbage på bordet. Jeg venter bag gardinet, indtil du er klar."
Med pap-smøreprøve, fingeraftryk og blodprøver afsluttet var jeg voldtaget på alle mulige måder. Sygeplejersken forklarede, at det var rutine at undersøge for seksuelt overførte sygdomme, fysiske abnormiteter og handicaps, mens vi gennemgik min sygehistorie. Vi talte om min prævention, som jeg ikke længere havde kontrol over. Hun ville regulere den fra nu af.
Ligesom jeg havde forventet, hilste Stanley på mig lige uden for døren. Vi gik op ad en trappe af buede marmortrapper med et sort jerngelænder og gik ned ad en korridor, der var foret med samme brædder og lægter, før vi drejede om et hjørne. "Klasselokalerne ligger på tredje etage. Levende hovedkvarter er stationeret på den anden. Der er et kort i jeres sovesal." Vi drejede endnu en gang til venstre. "Her har I fællesbadeværelset, og messen ligger lige fremme og til højre," sagde han og forklarede med håndbevægelser. "I skal bo i fjerde fløj, og deler dette badeværelse med tredje fløj."
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"Vi er kønsneutrale og diskriminerer ikke. Du skal nok vænne dig til det."
Han holdt en pause for at undersøge, om jeg forstod det, før han vendte sig om på hælen. Der var tunge ståldøre langs gangen på hver side. Gulvet var det samme hvirvlende grå marmor, men væggene var nu en skyblå cement. Vi nærmede os en dør til højre, da Stanley standsede op. "Der er ingen undervisning for dig i dag. Gør jer bekendt med håndbogen. Middag er kl. 17.30 i messen og udgangsforbud er kl. 20.30. Dørene bliver automatisk låst klokken 20.45 præcis. Hvis du har brug for at bruge toilettet i løbet af natten, er der en summer på dit værelse. Vagten på nattevagt vil eskortere dig."
Stanley tog nøgleringen fra sit bælte og åbnede døren, inden han gik ind. Efter at have scannet sovesalen grundigt, bød han mig velkommen indenfor. "Det skal nok blive bedre," tilføjede han, idet han aflæste mit kropssprog præcist.
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Væggene i rummet var gråblå og cementerede ligesom den gang, jeg lige havde gået ned ad. Jeg havde ikke forventet dette, selv om jeg egentlig ikke vidste, hvad jeg skulle forvente. Jeg tror, at et hvidt rum med polstrede vægge havde strejfet mit sind på flyrejsen hertil. En dobbeltseng uden hovedgærde og fodgærde sad mod den venstre væg med et enkelt gråt lagen og en pude over en tynd madras, og et tomt skrivebord sad mod den parallelle væg med en enkelt sort metalstol. Jeg nærmede mig det lille vindue på den anden side af rummet for at se en udsigt til bagsiden af skolen bag tremmerne. Intet andet end sparsomme skove og murstensmuren i det fjerne.
Min kuffert ventede på mig ved siden af døren, men jeg gad ikke pakke den ud. Der var alligevel ikke nogen kommode, kun en rullevogn under sengen. Jeg satte mig på sengen og lod mine fingre glide hen over det tynde lagen. Hvor mange havde sovet i dette rum før mig? Over den eneste dør i rummet hang et ur, der viste klokken 15.16. Jeg lagde mig tilbage på sengen, foldede hænderne bag mit hoved og stirrede på loftet, mens jeg tænkte tilbage på, hvad der havde bragt mig i dette helvede til at begynde med.