The piercing wind glides across her sullen face as her bare feet step onto the concrete floor. Contrast between the illuminated staircase and the dark night makes her a mere shadow standing in the doorway. It is Friday night in Century City, California and the city is busy celebrating another week well spent in shallow, gluttonous Hollywood clubs. Her long, fragile hair can't resist the cold December wind and blurs her vision as it billows in front of her pale face. She moves away from the door, still hesitant and uncertain of her decision. On her left wrist is a wrist band that reads

St.Catherine's Psychiatric Institute
Patient Name: Jane Doe
Disorder: Severe depression and paranoia

Depression and paranoia. What does it mean depression and paranoia? Who is this Jane Doe? Taking another step into the darkness she wonders what these words really mean. She turns her head westward and gaze at the silent tree tops, rustling in the wind. No stars, no moon. Just the night. The florescent light from the doorway, barley reaching her now, divulges her gaunt figure beneath the over sized white gown. Chills quickly crawl up her ankles, to her calves and knees as she takes yet another step forward. There is a faint noise coming from an unidentifiable source. It is an odd noise, irritating, but soothing. Is it a crowd of people? No, it can't be. Too monotonous. Perhaps it is the sound of waves crashing and disappearing onto the sand. That can't be right. She can't smell the indifference of the ocean. It is the sound of cars racing across the street 27 stories below. Technically it would be 28 stories.

The wind died out now. Her hair motionlessly sits on her head, completely disoriented. She stops for a moment to look back at the painfully bright staircase. No. Instead she just stands there. Simply existing. The existence of an individual is so frail and insignificant. As if to push her forward, the wind starts up again, harsher and colder than before. She keeps walking until a small step appears. She steps up and closes her eyes. Yes, this is it. Suddenly everything is clear. The wind is gentle, her feet no longer cold. She opens her eyes and sees the lifeless black glass below her and miniature cars passing by. But no pedestrians. No pedestrians on the sidewalks that were built for pedestrians. And then - gone.

The rooftop is empty again. The florescent lights flicker in the staircase. Oh wait. How is she doing this? How is her mind still up at the top if her reflection is clearly visible on the windows? She hasn't seen herself since… she can't even remember. She looks awful. Dreadful. Sickening. Maybe it's just sick, not sickening. The orange street lamp reveals her hollow eyes with haunting dark circles beneath – or is it above? – them. Dark Circles… Dark… circles…?

"You know, teach, they say that people who can draw a perfect circle in one stroke are supposedly perverted. And that one you just finished drawing seems pretty perfect. "

Who said that? Aren't circles supposed to be perfect?

"That's totally bogus."
"It's completely off topic, but still hilarious." Then laughter.

Who are they? How is that funny?

"I've never heard that before, but thank you for letting me know. Next time I draw a cell, I'll make sure it's not too perfect." More laughter.

"So by not defending yourself, are you admitting your perverted?" She says with a smirk on her face. It's something she heard from somewhere. She can't remember where but it was really funny when she first heard it too. The clock is pointing 12:37. Only 43 minutes in this hot, smelly classroom and she's fee.

"Moving on. Generally, an animal cell is composed of many different organelles, which, as its name indicates are similar to organs, like our lungs, heart, our brain." He continues on to explain the functions of major organelles to review for the "semester" final. It's actually the two-week final. Next week he goes on vacation while the thirty some odd of us are stuck here with some other boring biology teacher. She looks at the clock again. The round white clock hung on the used-to-be white wall seems dull and uninteresting. Kind of like cells. Who cares about the small particles that make up living organisms? Her mind wanders off to what her teacher is planning for his vacation.

"Hey if we see you chilling at the beach, can we say hi?" Her rosy cheeks glow as she waits for his answer to this abrupt, unrelated question. In fact she knows what he'll say. She just wants him to talk about something more interesting than mitochondria.

"No. In fact if you do, I'll just pretend I don't know you. Come on guys, I spent enough of my summer with you. Give me a break." He adjusts his glasses. Some kid starts to ask some other irrelevant question and then another kid starts talking and some other kid at the corner of the room, so on and so forth till the class is filled with kids having conversations about their vacations, what they'd do if they ran into him, and how much homework they have tonight. But tonight, she has no homework, no obligation to attend to. Because the pull of gravity is guiding her directly down to the streets below.