They are fond of sunny days and open spaces which she has come to fear. There has always been these empty streets, these deserted alleyways, these shops boarded up and dark. Windows papered over with torn newsprint; she has tried every door and found it locked, no sanctuary there.

Noon is a dangerous time; no shadows then. Their voices echo off the elaborate concrete of the untenanted high-rises. She hurries from street to street, head down and ragged collar up, eyes glued to the tips of her shoes. She has seen them now and then, flashes in the corner of her eyes, and bled for it, been burned for it. They are not made to be seen in their power and their glory, the splendor of the noonday sun.

She has been here a nameless length of time. She cannot remember anything before, but there is an ache for human voices that tells her of other times, other places, less god-touched, more human.

Happy birthday!

She’s ushered into a small little room and left there. It’s pretty bare — no posters, no prints of famous (if bland) art, no pictures — just a card table and a folding chair and a laptop. She takes a firmer grip on her paperwork, then reminds herself not to crinkle it, then sits down and opens up the laptop.

An elegant user experience it ain’t, but there’s a certain brutal grace to the interface’s sheer efficiency. First page, name, date of birth, date of death, previous address. All clearly labeled, all distinct, no questions.

After that, it’s page after page (after page after page) of the most exhaustive purity test imaginable. Every thirty or so pages there’s a little window that pops up reminding her to take a break, get up and stretch, keep herself fresh and limber.

The overhead light buzzes slightly.

Normally she scores really low on these things, and it’s a point of pride. She used to get ideas from them, but of course now that’s not really possible. Still, there’s a lot less in here about sex than what she was expecting. Oh, there’s some, of course, but even that’s mostly more about abuse and coercion than anything, and any coercing she’s done was more-or-less consensual. She marks a lot of NOs.

Some of the questions are awful.

Death was a mountain in an empty plain. Four months she hiked, and four months again, and again four months; for a year and a day she hiked to come to the foothills of the mountain that was Death, and lost her name along the way.

There was a gate at the bottom, and it was open. No eyes kept watch of the road up the mountain of Death. She set her foot on the path and began to climb.

First to go were her memories, snagged in the branches of the silver trees that lined the road, where they hung, heavy as gold, among other, stranger fruit.

Next to go were her desires, lost in the sable darkness of the caves that pierced the sides of the mountain of Death. Jackals caught them up with teeth bright as diamonds, snip snip snap.

Last to go were all eighteen of her senses, blown away by the winds that clawed at the cliff faces of the mountain that was Death.

For an impossible time she was, but knew nothing. She existed, perfectly unaware, and neither heat nor cold nor distance nor motion nor time touched upon her.

Such were the hazards of the mountain of Death.

In the drawers, untouched for months, one would make unexpected discoveries. ~Bruno Schulz

The woman calling herself Omphale holds her breath and slowly curls inward until she looks a little like a periwinkle. She can’t move, and she can’t hold this for more than an hour, but it’s useful when other options fail. She’d like to get up to twelve hours, though. Twelve’s a good number — a lot can happen in twelve hours.

“Where you hiding, you little bitch?” Six pairs of shoes pick-pack their way across the floor. “We know you’re in here. C’mon out and taaalk to us.” Their voices are syrupy sweet, mock-friendly. “Oh, what’s the matter? Is the little dyke scared of us?” Bang goes the first stall. They laugh, drawing it out, enjoying themselves. Bang goes the second stall. “We know you can’t keep your eyes off us, slut. We know you think about us when you touch yourself.”

Jesus, she thinks, what a rich fantasy life.

Bang goes the last stall, but she’s safe, tucked away behind the toilet. She tunes out their anger and confusion, lets it wash over her like so many waves on the beach. Yeah, twelve hours is a good goal. Maybe she’ll try to squeeze in some practice this weekend.

She hears a laugh when she closes the door to her apartment and doesn’t wait to find out who made it. She tears the door open again and bolts down the hall without so much as a glance behind her. There’s a crash and heavy feet pound after her but she’s up the stairs and out onto the roof before they can catch her, over the edge and down in a long graceful arc and safe on the sidewalk. She feels something drag at her coat as she goes over the wall but it’s too late.

There’s a dark silhouette painted against the sky when she looks up again. It’s too far to make out any details but she can’t read any anger in the way it watches her. She waves and it turns away and walks back into the building.

She can’t stay in town anymore, that’s for sure, so she buys a ticket on a Greyhound and heads east. The ID she shows the ticket agent says Paula Smith; it’s not much but it might help. It’d be faster to fly, but lately she’s been longing for a feeling of earth underneath her, some reminder of solidity and an immutable sense of being.