"Why do people even read this garbage?"

Her eyes had been burning holes into the carpet for hours, he hadn't told her why she was there, or even why he'd bothered rescuing her from her attackers. They actually hadn't held a conversation at all, he'd sat there, legs propped up on the edge of the bed, reading a novel. She sat on the opposite end of him, still facing him from his position in the chair. It hadn't been all that boring, or awkward, though they were strangers, mostly lonely. She spent most of her days sitting around, staying out of the way, out of sight, more often than not, she was invisible.

The room was small, as motel rooms usually were, she had the choice of bad wallpaper or interestedly stained carpet to stare at, there wasn't even a painting. The TV remained off, she was certain it wouldn't work, even if she had wanted it on, the bed at least was comfortable, and clean looking, better than sitting on a sidewalk getting splashed by speeding vehicles. She had a home, but it wasn't worth returning to, the motel and its pungent smoky smell reminded her of it. Her mother's high pitched, angry voice, demanding her go and change into something more proper for a lady, and her father puffing on a cigar in the background. Her side began to ache, and she shifted sideways onto the bed again, blinking the memories away.

"Characters tend to lead better lives than we do," She spoke quietly, offhandedly, not expecting a real conversation, yet not wanting to be rude.

"So, you'd put up with terrible plots, just to escape your life for a moment or two?"

"No, not me," She shook her head, finally prying herself away from a stain, positive she didn't want to know the origin.

He watched her, perhaps his questioning was an attempt to get inside of her mind, but she was much to used to locking herself out. She wondered why he didn't question how she wound up nearly being beaten to death; he didn't even question why she didn't try to save herself. It wasn't like she wanted to die; she just had no reason to continue to exist. Maybe he knew that, and that was why he didn't question it, but how could he know that? He tossed the book away; it landed awkwardly on the edge of the nightstand. It was the first time she'd actually gotten a look at him; she didn't feel comfortable with the way he stared at her, his eyes dark and brooding. But instead of frightening her, they comforted her; his hand quickly ran through his thick hair, pushing it back into place out of his face. It had fallen there when he studied the book. His long body stretched outward as he leaned back, head facing towards the ceiling, covered with some sort of plaster.

"What do you do?" His voice was honestly curious, it was lazy; however it made the conversation feel like something more than small talk.

"What?"

"To escape, everyone does something."

He made it sound like he didn't count in that generalization, like everyone was grey and he was blue, or green, or some other color. She stared at him, slightly dumbfounded. Hadn't he just been reading? Was that his escape? Doubtfully she pondered the question; she really didn't have a life to escape. She simply was there, existing day to day, forever floating in a sea of life. An accident of sorts. The words for her answer were there, but she was having difficulty forming sentences, her mind foggy from the smell of smoke, from the dimness of the singular light attached in the ceiling.

"Well?" He asked, tilting his head to see her better.

"I watch," She said slowly, feeling the words slid off her tongue.

"Watch," He repeated, turning back to the ceiling. "Interesting."

He didn't bother her asking what she watched, she was grateful, because she had no answer. She just watched, everything, the sun, moon, the people, the cars, she could see when someone was lying to their lover, or when someone was honestly sorry for making a mistake. She saw how people were affected by the sunlight, or the moon. At first she watched with tears, because she'd just noticed how different she was, and how transparent. She wanted someone to see her, standing there, alone, everyday, in the same way. Watching, and waiting, it'd become her life. Not even her parents reached for her, when she fell away from them.

"And, you don't want to die?"

"No."

"Why on Earth not?" She looked over, shocked by how close his face had moved to hers. "You see what people do, everyday, and you want to continue to exist as them?"

She laughed gently, standing up, taking the three steps or so towards the window, prying open the dusty blinds. She could feel his eyes on her. People moved around outside, dealing drugs, making out, they all had their individual stories on how they screwed up their lives. None of them, however, would tell you they screwed up, they'd say they were proud of where they were. They were better than people in business suits, better than the government, and they were not the scum of the Earth. They'd tell you all that until you pointed out the bad things in the back of their mind, and they'd break down from there. Either they'd prove they were strong and fix their lives, or they'd die, by the same method they'd ruined their selves. Her fingers slid from the blinds, watching them snap back into place.

Not even they acknowledged her.

"As them?" She whispered, feeling that same heart wrenching emotion. "I wish. They don't even see me; their mind just erases me."

"Are you sure they're the ones erasing you?"