Are you hearing this?”I nod.She says, “I didn’t mean to scare the piss out of you.”I mutter, “No, you didn’t scare me. I don’t know what...��s going on.”As if telling me a secret, she lowers her voice saying, “I heard a sound. I always hear strange sounds down here. It seems so real. I heard a voice telling me I needed something important, so I came inside because I thought it was in here. I have a compulsion to open doors—at least that’s what my ther****t says, but that Prozac peddler also says. I saw what little it had gotten her most of the time. I vowed then and there that I would not be weak. I would not rely upon the kindness and actions of others for my own well being. I also vowed, as I sat there huddled amongst stinking refuse to scared and alone to cry, that I would not miss her. I have almost never cried from grief again. As soon as I had healed enough, I moved out, heading for the markets. There I learned to beg and to steal. Always poor, I spent several months living like. More

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