In a dream I was looking down from the window of that glass house, water drops sliding past my hands that pressed to the transparent wall. Smoky rain clouds smudged the sky and down under it, a stranger had approached the house.

Only I knew the patched chocolate jacket, as it had been tucked in the furthest corner of my closet. I had yelled at Donnie for putting it on one day.

Father.

He was the only father I had left. I knew I had watched too long when he crouched down to set something on the rain drenched ground.

I hurried down to the front door, feeling his absence by the second. The door slammed open like thunder back against the house. Rain spit in my face.

“Dad!”

The empty driveway hung like the edge of a cliff.

“Daaad!” I called louder.

I wanted to scream how sorry I was. I hid the drugs from him. I let him down.

The wind caught on something left on the ground.

A rock holds down a paper.

There was a photograph of their family with one more person in it.

***

When does reality begin? The tv is rattling on. When does reality begin? What does it taste like? Feel like? When you get to the top of the world, what is left beneath you? The television narration prattled on.

It was a familiar set of lines. A familiar television program often replayed. Hearing the repeated phrases brings a sense of nostalgia as I remember my real parents seated on a frayed ugly green couch, my mother spooning a small tub of premium ice cream into her mouth while my still-lucid father reads a newspaper.

But the air in my reality smells musty. The weight of a loose chain is clasped around my ankle. Across the ceiling is a tangle of cords. I wiggle my fingers and toes from my place on a small metal frame bed, before discreetly turning my head to assess my environment.

A guy with old-man white hair sits in a neon orange chair. Data compiles across the screen, images of plants flash in and out with related descriptions scrawling out beside them in old fashioned green-on-black. The screen is finally paused on a collage of pictures. I wouldn’t call such a person impressive. With the old style skin applied to his computer and the miniatures of hover cars dangling above, I would think this a sci-fi movie loving weirdo.

Except a transparent box at the corner of the seniors desk was holding a vial of blood. And disturbingly, this same kidnapper was eating the same pizza taken from my dad’s apartment. My...dead dad.

He must have heard the bed creek or seen the reflection in his monitor because he turned towards me and revealed the face of the guy from the hot dog stand who started this. The one who gave me a white card. Well f*** me. “You have questions, I am sure,” he said, swirling a second vial I had not seen him holding. “As do I. Such as who gave you this?”

He lifts a white card from the mess of his desk. I push up to a seated position to gain a little more control and inspect the length of chain across the floor. “You did.” Obviously. And I would have obviously ran by now if I was not handcuffed

“I did,” he said, interested. “Are you sure? My face is quite average. You may have confused it.”

His screen switched to showing the exchange by the hot dog cart, the very same that her rich kidnapper had analyzed.

“Are you being serious?”

“Very,” he said. “I feel a bit cheated that I never noticed you before my impersonator showed up. Do you know someone who would want you dead?”

“You maybe?" I told him. But inside I was shaken. How was I supposed to have enemies? I was a bottom tier delivery person.

“Then why not hire a regular hit man? Why impersonate me?”

No idea. But I was irritated. I didn’t like this person any more than the last so I expressed my freedom of speech. “Must be the forgettable face.” Now how can I convince this person that I'm not interesting enough to keep or kill? Surely he was taking a risk? “You know. The police must know I’m missing.”

“Truthfully. I’ve arranged a lot of deaths. I give it a month before they forget about a nobody like you."

I wish. Nobodies don’t get kidnaped. Oh wait…that’s not true. But somebodies have bargaining power.

"Mr. Mr. White. Can I have time to write my last will? It will be a real bitch for the courts when they have no one to pass my dads assets too. Maybe we can share.”

“Ah yes. And who exactly, were your parents? The available results were unclear.”

Unclear. “What?”

He tapped a place on the monitor. “Your birth parents. They aren't listed.”

“So…”

Who cared?

My father had addicted himself to games, no longer caring for his own wife and child. And mother abandoned me a few years after. I was tired of mourning them.

“So what were their names?”

“Oh you must be one of those people who thinks I'm special.”

“Are you?”

“God's no. I make deliveries to drug addicted tragic people. If you want a so-called special person, try asking someone in costume.”

"Truthfully.” He tapped his keyboard as the monitor contained a long list of flower images along with their descriptions. “Your blood tests keep running positive for various drugs, but logically blood cannot contain this many toxins."

Mine. My eyes scanned the images of flowers. Suddenly curious. Suddenly mesmerized as a memory surfaced. A vase of purple spotted flowers in a glass vase set on a white table in an equally white hall.

I recalled recently the phrase of affection spoken by my father, my real one. ‘Little Flower.’

“So this…” I stretched my hand. “Is a flow-”

My hand was firmly gripped before I could make contact. “It's poisonous,” the boy who stopped me said.

I blinked. A shiver ran up my spine, but I suppressed my panic. "Hah,” I laughed and took on an amused expression. “Are you sure you didn’t mix up with a skin sample? I deliver drugs for work. Besides, I've been to the hospital. They never labeled me abnormal," I pointed out.

"Why would they notice? There are drugs in all our food so if your body functions normally they won't care. We could do a lot with this blood. Why don’t I cut ties with this government desk job and take you along. Neither of us will need to struggle anymore.”

He tapped the keyboard and a mood board of expensive houses, luxury goods, and vacation experiences was spread across the screens. “We can be like them. Change our names. Enter a new world”

He held out a tablet and I reluctantly accepted, trying to buy time to think logically. On the screen was a copy of a police report describing the discovery of my dead body. I was hyper aware of the faded scorpion tattoo on my inner wrist.

So he was saying this crazy scenario would be over. And I’d be better than before. I almost considered.

The screen dimmed to solid black. Then flickered on with a simple line of text.

I found you. Princess |

I was stunned. My stomach fluttered nervously. Who? Was this a joke?

The sound of a door lock clicking open was heard. It opened to a familiar figure raising a gun. With a deafening bang, old man blood splattered across the patch work of monitors as my kidnapper slumped down dead. My restraints unlocked.

Mr Killer moved forward to rummage through the mess unknowingly passing by my cramped spot partly behind the door. I watched him open a mini fridge of dew-bright pop, and poke the keys of the computer to prompt it awake but the machine seemed to have died with it’s owner. Meanwhile blood dripped onto scattered scribbles on papers on the ground. For a second I thought he came for me.

“I guess I’m behind the times. This must be the latest trend to trigger killing computers along with the owner,” he mumbled.

He hadn’t even changed his shirt. I recognized that greyish pattern with the tear on the hem.

“Hey,” I said lightly.

He turned.

“Janie?”

“Hi,” I said, still clutching the video pad.

“Hi to you as well. I thought…you were dead. The article said father and daughter died in a mugging.”

“That. This nerd wasn’t supposed to release that until I decided.”

“Decide what?”

“That creep wanted an assistant. Why did you come?”

“This employer wasn’t going to pay me. Did you see any drugs?”

“Really? You're secretly an idiot, aren't you?” I accused.

“No,” he stated. “What’s that?” He grabbed the tablet from my hands. Then sighed and set it aside. I looked and saw a typical error message.

400 Error

He stared at me directly then with his intense blue eyes, assessing if I was an unknown variable worth his time. Then spoke. “Go wait outside.”

I stood at the railing of the catwalk. Behind me was the kidnappers place. I could see it clearly reflected in the tinted windows of the building across. I watched his reflection, fingers typing across keys, his grey-blue sleeves buttoned up to reveal a pink scar along his elbow.

Finally, he turned and picked up the dead guys hand. Held a knife to it. I looked down and away, only hearing the dull thump. I remembered he didn't really have a choice. He told me himself that he was dying, held hostage by his bodies dependency on drugs. What could we do? But try.

I looked at my fingers gripping the balcony in front of me, my chapped knuckles covered by black fingerless old woolen gloves that did more to comfort me with memories than shelter from the cold. A bit of rail to keep us grounded from a dizzying fall. What did I want from this place? A smile on a clients face… A cozy shoebox bedroom to cocoon my troubles away as I watched passion filled videos about nothing… A not-fully-realized family…

I traced the delicate scorpion tattoo on my inner wrist. It had always been there. I didn’t think too deeply since ….since… I caught sight of the small flashing light on my wrist phone.

I clicked the small side button to pop open the holographic screen. There was a mail icon front and center. I opened it.

"Miss you."

The message was left on my work account. Like an innocent teenage confession of love. It was dated four days ago, but must have arrived late. I felt a little bad. I liked Donnie. Sort of like how people sleep with a soft teddy bear. Now he would think me dead.

Nearby a car door opened.

“Janie.”

I distractedly met the blue eyes of the man once sent to kill me. He waited beside his driver side door, two more white cards loosely held in his hand.

“The secret police will be here soon. This death here would have alerted those involved. And that bracelet can be traced.”

“I thought you didn’t know I was here,” I commented

“Ya. This computer was messing up the signal. I pinpointed this place by finding the center of where I would usually pick up my payment. But now your email pinged. You can keep that and stay. Or…”

He didn’t finish. The way he stood waiting gave away his offer.

I take the bracelet off and feel the deep scratch from the time I tried to jump a fence, and the criss cross of other marks I didn't know had become a living part of me. Just like the comforting blips of notifications as soft as my mothers voice, never replicated in another model. The simple round shape that I liked most.

“If I stay, do you think I can go home?”

“Fifty-fifty chance I would say. But people don't end up on my hit list by mistake.”

Some people say that we are the sum of our parts. Our friends, our family, our home, our little trinkets. I didn't expect to loose myself so quickly.

“Can I find out who caused this?”