In the center of the darkened room is a metal table. The only source of light is a small square television upon the table, a hypnotic blend of black and white static on the screen. I randomly select one of the several stacked cassette tapes sitting beside it and observe the label, on which I read the neat handwriting; Patient: Ciara Mitchell, and below it, Psychiatric Evaluation #6. I insert the tape and press play. The static fades away, replaced by a dimly lit scene. A young girl sits in stiff chair at a metal table, much like the one in this room. Seated across from her is a man who appears to be a doctor or scientist. He wears a white lab coat, and his black hair is slicked back, revealing his forehead. A notepad lies on the table in front of him and a pen rests in his hand. His sober expression and ready hand suggests he is prepared to study the girl. The creases in his forehead and around his face give away his age. The girl on the other hand looks to be only sixteen or seventeen. Not much of her face is visible, due to the grainy screen and her disheveled strings of long dark brown hair draped around her head. A solitary strand hangs in front of her eyes, which are cast down at her hands in her lap.
The doctor begins to speak first. The sound emitting from the television is distorted in a grating way that is harsh on the ears.
“Ciara, tell me about Michael.” he states, in a calm but demanding manner.
“Michael,” she repeats softly.
“Who was Michael, Ciara?”
The girl doesn’t bother to look up when she replies.
“A boy. . . he was in my math class.” Her voice is soft, nearly a whisper, as far I can tell through the television’s poor sound quality.
The doctor shifts in his seat, appearing impatient, then speaks again.
“If I can recall correctly from last we met, your favorite class was math, wasn’t it, Ciara?”
She nods slowly.
“I like the numbers.”
“What did Michael look like?”
One hand rises from under the table and the girl holds the single strand of hair in her face. She observes it thoughtfully as she twists it around a bony finger.
“He had brown hair, like mine,” She pauses and looks up slightly, “he had a nice face. Like yours, Dr. James.”
Dr. James raises his brow, wrinkling his forehead, as if he weren’t expecting to be addressed in such a way. He clears his throat and returns his features back to their previously relaxed demeanor.
“Did you like Michael?”
She shrugs.
“Was he kind to you?”
Ciara lifts her head fully and looks directly at the doctor, allowing me a full view of her skeletal appearance. Her eyes are sunken into her face, so far into her skull I wonder if they could go back any further. Dark circles surround her eyes and her skin is nearly translucent, giving her a death-like resemblance. She glares at the man with fiery hatred burning in her eyes, peeking through the shade of her eye sockets like a candle in the night.
“No. Michael was no good to anyone or himself.” She speaks coldly, in a tone that reminds me of stone. Her voice is hard and firm like a floodwall holding a river of emotion behind it. Her tense posture reflects her rigid speech.
“Is that why you killed Michael, Ciara?”
She smirks, a faint twitch of the corner of her thin, red lips.
“No, I just wanted to know what color his blood was.”
A period of silence. The doctor gazes into Ciara’s angry eyes, scrutinizing them as if he were looking through a window to her soul, where he seems to be searching for something in the darkness. Then she continues.
“It was dark blue. Like the night sky.”
Dr. James bows his head and scribbles several lines on his notepad. Ciara leans into the table and hovers over the center. Her hair hangs from her scalp like rope and falls over her shoulders, long enough to brush the table. Dr. James looks up to meet her stony glare, startled by the sudden closeness of her face.The next thing she says is whispered, barely perceptible through the television so that I have to strain my ears to hear it:
“What color is your blood, James?”
The picture on the screen suddenly begins to waver, then turns to static, and finally goes black. I’m staring into my own reflection on the monitor, alone in the room again.
My heart stops. I am not alone. Behind my reflection is something else. A ghostly face over my shoulder. Two shadowed pits where the eyes should be.

It’s her.