She hasn't been home in three days. This big house, how empty it can be when it's only him. Ms. Martha comes by once a day for an hour to cook for him in the evening. She's supposed to work overtime cleaning up after James while Ms. Diamond is away but he makes no messes. He barely eats. In the mirror he sees nothing but skin and bones however if he wears his t-shirt beneath his sweater and his jeans no one can tell.

Ms. Martha only cares about the money and James doesn't mind that she's so distant. He prefers the silence of the empty halls. Are they silent? When he paces the floors, empty guest rooms, the wine cellar, the attic, the foyer, the living area, the kitchen and the over grown green house he doesn't feel like he's surrounded in peaceful quiet.

In fact his mind races. Thoughts seem to scream at him as the pads of his feet press down on the tile of the bathroom floor, the marble of the staircase, the soil of the gardens who no longer need someone to tend to them. Wild as they are nature discourses and handles business and he at times hopes one of these massive green giants would simply reach down and swallow him.

James, so strong and silent in the halls of the public school he asked to go to. James, who can sit in a room full of people and with just a phrase here or a nod there can keep the strangers satisfied. James, never hears a word they say but can convince you with nothing but his eyes that he knows everything about you.

James, he swears someone is speaking to him.

Who are you? He'd ask if there was someone actually there.

He knows. These halls are empty. The only true sounds coming from his surroundings belong to the A/C unit that hums gently throughout the day or the washing machine when he throws the same three outfits in to wash because despite his closet being packed to the brim with the latest and the greatest only these three hug his body the way he feels necessary. The others feel like teeth in his skin or claws on his back. How is it that when he's so alone there is a presence around that seems to be draining him of life.

It mocks him. Drowns him. Tells him horror stories. 'Those poor children, so many of them have it worse than I why do I complain?' True his cabinets are full, the pantry freshly stocked once a week, the kitchen always smelled of spices and herbs but no he was empty. Not just of food, that which he deprived himself on purpose. He was empty of everything.

A body, a face, a profile, an avatar. These things stand before him in the mirror.

What isn't there? Depth. Character.

'Who am I' He'd ask himself, 'Where do I stand?'

The temperature is on 59 degrees Fahrenheit. He turns the nob to start the shower and sighs as he drops his towel to look into the vanity bolted into the wall above the seashell sink. The room is a pale sapphire haze and he counts his ribs as the streams of frost from the head in the glass cage behind him screams at him. His eyes are a dark sunken in black and he his nose is redder than a cherry on his heavy whipping cream colored face.

He steps into the stream and winces as the ice floods his veins. Veins that bubble up in his pasty arms a deep ocean blue when the pale lights from the ceiling are meant to prevent those spider webs from being visible. A trick his mother picked up on her trip to china in the spring of 2002 to prevent guest from being able to dope themselves up with dirty needles.

After a while of torturing himself with the icy tears from the ninth circle of Hell he steps out and grabs a towel. When he looks at himself this time he seems to be a pale purple. A small smile forms on his face as he likes that. Purple. What a color. Blue, the blood of those who live in grace. Red, the blood of those who have fallen from grace. Purple, that would be the color of those who never knew grace.

Swimming in it he can't see it. He's never been a part of it. A paradise to the rest of the world is a prison to him.

He doesn't even dare dream of a better life, of a life he might enjoy, as he pulls himself into the clothes that are just beginning to dry. The warmth from the dryer holds him and he allows himself to breath before returning to the bathroom to sit upon the seashell sink and stare at his face until the purple fades and the natural snow white returns.

Before he realizes it the time has come and there's the familiar ding dong bell of her arrival. Ms. Martha has arrived and she's calling out his name from downstairs.

He sighs as he turns from the bathroom and his feet meet the soft carpet of the third floor corridor. A shuffle as he makes his way to the spiral staircase and he doesn't get halfway before he has to stop and sit. The room is spinning. The world is a blurry mess. Birds sing in the evening air outside but the windows aren't open. He sees stars but the sun doesn't go down for a few more hours.

What is going down is the ceiling. Wait what? No that can't be right. What's happening?

Oh. That's the feeling of his ribs snapping and stabbing the lining of what little stomach he does have. A deep, painful breath, as his wrist tucks up under his back and snaps on another step. Just as he rolls out onto the ground level floor his head thuds against the final step and finally, finally, he finds the silence.