I stare at the mirror. My vision fails me, or the surface is too dirty. Leaning, twisting to no avail, I cannot make out my own face. Is it there? Am I here? Where is here? I’m frustrated and bored all at once.

“Benten, get off the hamper!” I yell at the cat. It’s not my cat; he’s just there. That’s probably why he ignores me like he does. Maybe he’s a she.

A clack of heels draws my attention outside. She is passing by again, no pause understandably at my dingy floor level apartment. Her scent wafts in to taunt me, an unknown combination of floral, chemical, and something else. Lust perhaps.

The knife is in my hands then in my pocket. I follow her. There is no reason, no plan. I can’t help but wonder if she knows I am there, twelve paces, ten paces, six paces behind. She couldn’t run in those heels if she tried.

God, those heels.

I close my eyes. Stop. Open again, she is gone. My breath is ragged, though I wasn’t in haste.

I want to go home. I should be home. This place isn’t home.