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Preamble and Disclaimers: None, really. The people here might bear resemblance to some people we all know and love, but I think I can really claim the characters here as mine this time. Please let me know if you decide to borrow them for any purpose. This story in its entirety is also mine, so please don't reproduce on any site without my permission, or in the absence of these disclaimers. Thank you.

The inspirations, on the other hand, I must give credit for. Nikolai Gogol's "Diary of a Madman", of course, also Samuel Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" and Edmond Rostand's "Cyrano de Bergerac". I would very much recommend you take both of these up and give them a read, for your own pleasure. They aren't necessary to understand the plot of this story, but it might help a little.

I don't normally like to indulge in a preamble, but I feel that I need to explain myself, and pave the way before the scene. I wrote this short piece in an attempt to reconcile my feelings towards a whole variety of different things, and to provoke and challenge these same feelings in others. As fanfic readers and writers in this Xenaverse there are several cardinal elements that we take for granted - elements that we attempt to bring into our everyday lives through uber fiction. But even uber has connotations of operating over and above real life - as someone who finds fascination in the dichotomy between the notions of preordained destiny and the pragmatic, haphazard will of nature,  I can only imagine how it would really be - to feel the touch of the Ancient in a harsh, modern world.

This was the result - a story that examines that notion and a hundred others that have crossed my mind, causing a myriad of reactions and emotions that I can only begin to express, and can't quite begin to understand. Perhaps you will find some illumination where I have yet to succeed.

It was raining.

Darlinghurst streets were grey-black, barely lit by the streetlights that struggled to penetrate the sheets of rain pelting the cracked ashphalt. Looming shadows clutching bags and umbrellas moved hurriedly from shelter to shelter, while others seemed to amble drunkenly, oblivious to the cataclysmic wet.

Panting as she slowed from a brisk run, Ashley Wakelin walked into the sodden front lobby of the hospital, her hair straggly and limp. Locating the nearest bin, she shoved the broken limbs of her umbrella into it with utter disgust, dodging people and patients while trying to order the wet strands of dark blonde hair away from her face at the same time.

It was a bad start to her psych term.

She peeled off her overcoat, feeling conspicuously pretentious in her power suit and sensible shoes. Loathe to appear helpless by inquiring at the information desk, she did her best to maintain an authoritative stride as she searched for signs to guide her to the appropriate ward, clutching her regulation leather case like a lifeline. And indeed, there they were - large signs suspended overhead proclaiming their information in bold, black letters, with a neat arrow pointing in one of a myriad of directions in this chaotic lobby.

She rounded the corner to find the ascending lift about to close its doors. Making a mad dash, she jammed her slight frame into the narrowing gap and pushed into the cramped elevator, trying to ignore the dozen-or-so evil eyes that were instantly upon her.

Well, I don't suppose this day can get any worse.

The doors opened for Cahill 19. Forced out by the sheer force of pressure in the packed lift, Ashley unceremoniously stumbled out and found herself contemplating the meal trolley up close.

"You right there, miss?" The voice came between rows upon rows of breakfast cereal, toast and powdered eggs.

"Uh - yes - my name's Ashley Wakelin - I'm an intern on my psychiatry attachment..."

The warden laughed. "I ain't gonna help you much with that, miss. Why don't you go up and find the nursing unit manager over at that desk there."

Green eyes followed an extended finger. She was barely able to mumble a "thank you" before she found her way to the front desk, her mind caught in an insomniacal fog. Wake up, Ash, wake up...

The desk was busy, with several nurses speaking intently into phones whole others buzzed around the patient list and their files. She tried for eye contact, hesitant to venture into the thick of the bustle, and was finally rewarded by a curious look from one of the nurses.

"Yes?"

She repeated the mantra. "Hi - I'm Ashley Wakelin. I'm an intern on my psych term -"

"Ah, yes. We're expecting you. Come with me, and I'll introduce you to your patient." Without further word, the nurse left and Ashley followed, their heels striking the floor with a sterile crack against polished vinyl.

They entered the doctor's office, a tiny room at the end of the corridor. There were two chairs confronting each other in the claustrophobic room against a backdrop of papers, folders and ancient medical tomes, all vying for space on an already-overflowing desk.

They sat, their knees almost touching.

"Your patient is in bed thirty, just across the corridor here. Her name's Emmanuelle Blake - a thirty three year old from Blackheath with a past history of borderline personality disorder. I don't want to tell you much more than that, seeing as that's your reason for being here, but you should know that she's suffered some severe facial trauma. It shouldn't be a problem when the dressings are on, but I feel I should let you know you nevertheless."

Ashley nodded.

"I'm Carolyn, the psych nurse assigned to her on this ward. If there are any problems, I would be the person to help you - the others won't be able to do much for you if the patient is causing you trouble." She turned around, rummaging through the desk as she spoke. "You've probably already realised that this isn't a psych ward at all - she's actually in here for her facial injuries, but that shouldn't affect your work. It's probably much nicer here in the general hospital than being stuck with all the loonies down the road at Caritas anyway."

The nurse laughed - strained sound - one that Ashley did not partake in. She was handed a hefty folder. "Here are her most recent records. You should find all you need here."

She took the dead weight. "Thank you."

The off-white door was before her, set into thick walls of the same non-descript colour. The large frosted glass pane was almost as forbidding as the closed door itself, twisting the light from beyond into a mottled sickly grey. A small shelf beside the door bore a thin folder and pen-on-a-string, but there was nothing more.

Ashley chose to procrastinate. Picking up the folder, she leafed through the obs charts, noting the blood pressure and temperature from habit even though it was largely irrelevant. Blonde brows hiked up as she scanned the medications list, noting the heavy-duty drugs prescribed. Clozapine to tame her during the day, then knock her out with some temazepam before she's up too long to cause trouble. She noted a decrease in dosage since yesterday - to keep the patient coherent enough for an interview, perhaps.

She shook her head, replacing the folder. With nothing else to be done, she mentally reviewed her psych history-taking skills and made contact with the door.

She knocked tentatively. "Ms Blake?"

No answer. She knocked again, then gingerly pushed the door open.

The lights were off. A figure sat at a table, her body hunched over as she peered into a mirror, as if applying make up even though there appeared to be no movement. The room was neat, orderly - the bed was so well made it looked unslept, the pillow too plumped to have been used. Two windows flanked the altar-like dresser, revealing angry clouds that panned out to the horizon.

"Ms Blake? I'm Ashley Wakelin from the psych assessment team..."

For a while, it was as if she didn't hear her. The figure remained motionless, apparently focused on her own image. The intern moved closer, speaking in calming tones as she validated her presence.

"...over at Caritas. I'm working with Professor Klein for two weeks, and he has assigned me to investigate the circumstances surrounding your current admission to hospital - "

She spoke with growing confidence as the shadow finally stirred, in some apparent acknowledgement of her presence. She moved closer yet towards the slouching silhouette, already framing her questions when the figure finally turned towards her.

Ashley's eyes fell on her patient, and she froze.

Her face was completely destroyed. Her jaw was scarred and deviated to the right, covered with old bloody scabs. Her scalp was shaved on one side, baring a long, curved scar that still bore its staples. The cheeks were hollow - emaciated, even - casting deep shadows in dark, scarred skin, and one eye was missing - the empty socket bordered by swollen, deformed tissue that looked angry and red. The other eye looked balefully at her; pale, colourless, burning.

But the most horrific was her nose. Or the lack of it. There was a gaping hole where her nose should have been; the top lip was missing, and cheekbones swept inward and into the cavity that receded into her face, showing the awful, pink fleshiness that lay inside her head...

Oh my god -

Feeling acutely vasovagal, Ashley turned and fled the room.

She didn't go in again until the next day.

Clutching her styrofoam hit of caffeine, Ashley walked down the same barren corridor with the same false air of purpose, utterly mortified once more as memories of yesterday returned vividly. What am I going to do? I ran out on her, like some screaming schoolgirl...

An apology probably doesn't even begin to cover it.

The remainder of her afternoon had been spent revising borderline personality disorder in the safety of the DSM-IV, her diagnostics manual: where paranoid schizophrenia dwelled in perfect contentment beside trichotillomania and substance-induced sexual dysfunction; where every disease was categorised and elucidated in wonderful, blessedly sterile detail without preamble, without histrionics, without a face blasted halfway to bloody hell.

Ashley sighed. In some weird twist, she had almost forgotten what her patient looked like.

The door to bed thirty hovered before her like headlights looming to strike.

Knock knock.

No answer. This time, Ashley pushed open the door, not really expecting an invitation to enter.

There had been no change to the room. Everything there was the way it was for the brief glimpses that were afforded Ashley in her truncated visit - the neatly-made bed, the fluffed pillow. But where it had been eerily silent before, it was now filled with the sound of rain - the violent thundering of millions of waterdrops shattering on the ground far below, smashing against the window, drenching the patch of vinyl where the same hunched silhouette now stood before an open window, contemplating the apocalyptic sky.

"Good morning, Ms Blake." She laid her bag against the wall, extracting her pen and notepad. She took slow, measured steps towards the patient, past the bed and its freshly-laundered sheets.

She stopped short of the wet floor, the back of her legs against the bed - it was the closest she could get without feeling any more intrusive than she already was.

When the figure finally spoke, it was so soft Ashley barely heard it above the rain. But the words were there - harsh, ill-formed, guttural.

"Back for more?"

Ashley decided not to answer that. "I'd like to speak with you, if I can."

"Do you think you can?"

The voice was louder this time; less harsh, too - perhaps a result more from misuse than anything else. Instead, it was more velvety, more tauntingly decadent as the smoother tone blended with the same ill-formed, guttural words.

Ashley took that as a yes. "May I sit down?"

There was subtle, dismissive wave of a hand. She lowered herself onto the bed, sitting primly with back straight, knees together, pen and paper poised. "Have you been here long, Ms Blake?"

For a while, Ashley thought she would not answer.

"Five weeks."

She nodded, writing it down. "And why was it that - "

"Put that away."

Her train of thought interrupted, she looked up at her patient's back. "What?"

"Your notebook. Get rid of it."

"I don't..."

"I said - " The movement was explosive. The silhouette seemed to rear and strike in less than a heartbeat, the dark limbs tearing the book and pen from her hands in a ripping motion that left Ashley gasping for breath in its wake. Her heart was pounding its way out of her chest and into her throat as she felt hands - strong hands - grip her wrists and pin her down, seconds before a bandaged face thrust itself two breaths away from her own.

Her patient's breath was on her mouth. "You want to be a psychiatrist? Here's a tip for you, shrink. You want to analyse me? Talk to me, not your note paper. Throw away your DSM-IV and whatever other book you're using to classify my psychosis -" She tore off the dressing from her face, and watched the beautiful features beneath her cringe and turn away.

"None of your textbook psychopaths would even come close to who I am."

The words were bit off close to Ashley's ear. Fighting an urge to yell, the smaller woman forced her eyes back to the disfigured face before her and seized eye contact, willing every ounce of calm defiance in her gaze.

Finally, finally - the pressure on her wrists left, and her patient turned away again in apparent disgust. Ashley watched her carefully before straightening, feeling the impossible sensations of hysteria and adrenalin bubble crazily inside her. Her heart continued to pound, but it was beginning to calm - enough for her to see the shatter remains of her pen on the ground, and no sign of her notebook.

She looked to the opened window, and drew in a shaky breath.

"Perhaps  - we can try this again. Tomorrow."

Her patient shrugged, indifferent once more. "Suit yourself."

She almost ran to Caritas.

Breathless from the exertion, Ashley stepped into the front lobby of the psychiatric institution, finding solace in the familiar, shabby Victorian walls. She was angry - angry at her humiliation, angry at her own defeat, her weakness - stupid stupid stupid. You'd be crying given half the chance, you bloody coward.

She found an equally shabby Victorian bench and dumped herself in it.

What are you doing here anyway? Looking for someone to hold your hand? Someone to pat you on your head and send you on your way? "Oh, I'm sorry, Ashley - did you say psychiatry? This must have been some terrible mistake - here's your real assignment: a nice, uncomplicated manic depressive. And a cup of coffee. Well done."

She sighed, trying to rip out a suddenly throbbing headache with her bare hands.

"Ashley. How are you going?"

She looked up, instantly conscious of her bleary-eyed greeting. "Professor Klein - "

"How did your case assessment go yesterday?"

"I, uh - " She ran a hand through her hair, collecting herself. "She's a - difficult patient. I've been finding it hard to get progress with her."

"She's like that. It took me several months to have actually talk to me." He smiled down at her, his scholarly features almost benevolent, enlightened. "Don't let her pick you clean. That's what she'll do - without any apparent effort. She would have made a brilliant psychiatrist, if circumstances were different."

She nodded, sighing. No shit.

"There is a wealth of information to be mined, Ashley. There are various ways of getting her to talk, just as she has various ways of talking; I'm sure you'll do very well. I have a great deal of confidence in you." He gave her a short tap on the shoulder. "See you at the meeting tomorrow."

"Yeah. See you then." She didn't know whether to thank him or not.

The next day, Ashley bought a new notebook on the way in to work. She left it in her bag.

"Good morning, Ms Blake."

She closed the door quietly behind her, noting that the room appeared more forgiving and airy with sunnier, clearer weather. The windows were closed, the curtains and floor were dry. The cushioned chair that was placed on one side of the bed was now on the other, allowing its tenant to bask in the thin morning sun.

Who turned towards her. There was now a strange serenity in her solitary gaze, the one good eye simply watching her with a calm detachment. The tear in her face was once again covered by dressing - a white square of bandage that tempered the violence of her face into mere disfigurement.

"I'm sorry. About yesterday."

The patient shrugged, then reached for a kidney dish on the bedside table. It was only then that Ashley realised the reason for her peculiar elocution - she formed words with the aid of a prosthesis, a false palate that was inserted where the roof of her mouth should have been.

Ashley looked away, allowing her patient a measure of privacy.

"Why bother?"

"Because... I hurt you."

Silence. The blue eye turned back to the window. "Have you ever been in pain?"

Ashley did not reply.

Her patient went on, nonetheless. "Is it my pain you think you're feeling, or just your own that you're attributing to me?"

She could not reply.

The silence stretched on, and Ashley could only watch her patient watch the world. She sat down on the bed, her eyes never leaving the obscured profile.

It was finally broken. "I don't want your charity. Do your job, shrink."

There was some progress.

Not much, not enough to write home about. But there had been successful questioning, exchange of facts, fractured interrogation - all of which had far surpassed the running trend to date. As Ashley settled herself in front of the cramped desk of the doctor's office she pulled out her notepad and jotted down all she could remember.

Lived alone in Blackheath. Ex-policeman ex-writer ex-photographer ex-labourer ex-smoking self-professed philosopher. No history of alcohol intake or recreational drugs whatsoever. Spent five of a ten year sentence in Long Bay Psychiatric Facility for murder; released eighteen months ago on good behaviour. Admitted here 5 weeks ago following suicide attempt.

"The only thing I've ever botched," she said, Ashley thought with a chill in her flesh. The gun was held to her neck, pointing up towards her brain - but her head was forced back as she pulled the trigger; the bullet ripped through her mouth, her nose - bony fragments in her eye...

Would she count herself lucky...?  She sighed and continued to write.

Admitted for wound debridement and evacuation of epidural haematoma. Tongue and floor of mouth repaired. Refused facial reconstructive surgery.

She read over the history again, feeling the dissatisfaction grow. There were still too many questions.

?Homicide ?History of self-mutilation ?Medication history ?Experience in prison ?Family/relations/friends ?Children

The information on the page was dismayingly thin. The rest manifested itself in a diffuse, non-specific ball of feeling in her gut, too tangible for comfort yet too vague for definition. It was from the way she spoke, the way she described episodes in her past, the useless rhetoric she spouted - and there was no way to set it to paper.

There was something she said - Words that echoed loudly in her mind but did not have meaning, words she could almost remember...

That's it! Bolting upright, Ashley leapt from her chair and crossed the hallway, snatching the medication chart from the shelf. That's it...

Green eyes scanned the sheet, impatient fingers flicking through the pages of present and past prescriptions. The medication list included antibiotics, antipsychotics, sedative-hypnotics - but was completely devoid of any analgesia. No morphine, no pethidine, no codeine - not even panadol...

She smiled grimly. There was progress.

Her patient's time was not her own. That was a difficult fact for Ashley to reconcile as she returned to Cahill 19 the following day, impatience having gnawed down her mind to a razor-sharp point.

She knocked on the door, bypassing the usual niceties as she stepped into the room. Her patient sat once again in the chair, bathed in a square patch of sun that framed her head and shoulders.

She was reading. Ashley missed the title as the book was lowered to the reader's lap, the thin paperback volume well-worn at the edges - her mind was already on something else.

She began without preamble. "You asked me something yesterday."

The blue eye turned to watch her, but did not respond.

"You asked me if I'd ever been in pain."

The statement seemed to register some surprise in her patient - a flicker of movement in the scarred forehead, a lift of a dark eyebrow.

"The last time I remembered being in excruciating pain was when I broke my femur two years ago. I was on my elective term, in a mission hospital in Nepal. They had to realign my thigh, and they had nothing to give me. I was screaming and screaming, just willing myself to black out."

The silent scrutiny fell to her legs, an inherent question in the action.

"It's fine now." She rubbed her thigh, feeling an accusatory dull twinge in her femur. "Just not when it rains."

Seconds, minutes seemed to pass as the dark woman appeared to absorb the information, coming to accept the currency of words. "What do you want to know?"

Bingo. Ashley uttered a short, silent thank-you to whoever was listening, feeling a palpable connection finally come into place.

"Back then I would have given my soul for anything - panadol, vodka, a hit of ketamine - anything to stop the agony." She took a breath, her voice falling softer, hesitant. "Yet you - with your injuries - you refused pain relief."

Ashley heard a snort. Or was that a laugh?

"Do you think I did this for fun, shrink?" The look was on her face, searching her, accusing her. In that instant Ashley knew she had lost any tenuous connection she had made moments before; felt it crash around her, pulled by the gravity of disappointment. Damn it, it was my big chance - my only chance, and I blew it!

Disappointment flared into desperation - she did not have time for the woman's angry rhetoric.

"I would have thought you did this to die."

Ashley instantly regretted her sarcasm. After an awkward, drawn-out silence, she moved to apologise but was surprised to hear her patient speak - without malice, only a contemplative solitude.

"It was said that the biggest decision made in life is Suicide." The twisted, ambiguous speech was carefully spoken, as if every word had been considered. "The moment when you answer for once and for all whether life has any meaning."

Ashley stared at her. You were looking for the meaning of life?

The pieces were falling into place - over what she thought was the rubble of understanding between them. She swallowed. "And you found your answer."

Emmanuelle looked away, and Ashley knew that the interview was over.

Friday. Several new admissions and consult requests meant that Ashley had a full schedule dictated to her until late-afternoon, spread between the general hospital and Caritas.

Walking at a brisk pace, Ashley regarded the noonday sun overhead as she climbed and rounded the hill overlooking St. Vincent's. Impatient traffic huddled in cluttered rows along the street, framing a chaotic focus of activity that ebbed and flowed with the pulse of the city. Her compact figure wove through the current traffic gridlock, fingers brushing heated car bonnets as dashed to the main building.

She looked at her watch, dodging people in the hospital lobby. Twenty minutes. Time for breakfast.

Ashley disappeared into the staff lounge, and reappeared a few minutes later bearing a steaming cup of instant coffee. It would have to do. She checked her patient printout, noting that her next consult was on "C9" - Cahill 19.

Rounding a corner, the chime of a lift was heard. Decisions presented themselves and were made in an instant as Ashley jammed the lid on her coffee, sprinting for the closing doors.

This time should have been the same as all the others. But as Ashley knocked on that same, beige door, she felt a sensation of impending wrongness, something inside telling her that this might not be a good idea.

She stepped inside. The tall, quiet woman was in the same chair, reading. One clear eye looked up past the facial dressing, registering her presence with a calm gaze.

"Is this a bad time?"

Long fingers gestured vaguely to the intern's usual spot on the bed. Ashley moved further inside the room, looking away as her patient lifted her bandage, fitting her palatine prosthesis..

She sat down with a quiet crush of starched bedsheets.

"What are you reading?" Ashley asked, leaning in to read the title page held up for her. "'Waiting for Godot'. Samuel Beckett."

Her patient continued to read.

"It looks short - what's it about?"

This seemed to amuse the quiet woman, who may have laughed; as she turned to look squarely at her, Ashley read a small crease in the imploded eye socket, a spark in the glacial eye.

Her patient gave a terse, blurred answer. "Life."

Ashley smiled. "Is that what it's all about? 'Waiting'?"

A pause. The gaze deviated to the vinyl flooring for a moment, tracing the grey-green mottling in thought before it returned to her with the same unerring steadiness.

"You did not come this morning."

The statement surprised her. "No, I had a few things - " She was about to explain, but cut herself off. "I left a message with Carolyn. She didn't pass it on?"

There was no answer, no movement. The eye returned to the floor, watching it with a detached intensity, as if drawing thoughts from a deep, unseen well.

"You had other patients to see."

"A few." Ashley replied, gesturing vaguely with her hand, then conceded. "A lot. I'm actually between consults - I should... go." She dropped her gaze to her watch, taking shelter in the time. Just dropped by to... whatever.

The dark woman seemed to understand. With a nod, she averted her penetrating gaze and resumed her reading. A dismissal. Ashley rose and picked up her bag, walking to the door.

Fingers brushed the door handle, and stopped. Ashley turned, remembering a question she had forgotten to ask.

"Who's Godot?"

Emmanuelle did not look up. "Someone who never came."

Six thirty, post meridiem. The end of the working week, though a weekend shift loomed too close for any significant respite. Ashley sat at one of the many Darlinghurst cafes, nursing her macchiato while she pored over a third-hand copy of Samuel Beckett, hastily bought from a bookstore on the corner.

Vladimir and Estragon were waiting.

"Do you remember the Gospels?"

"I remember the maps of the Holy Land. Coloured they were. Very pretty. The Dead Sea was pale blue. The very look of it made me thirsty. That's where we'll go, I used to say, that's where we'll go for our honeymoon. We'll swim. We'll be happy."

"You should have been a poet."

"I was." Estragon gestures towards his rags. "Isn't that obvious?"

Silence.

"Where was I... How's your foot?"

"Swelling visibly."

"Ah yes, the two thieves. Do you remember the story?"

"No."

"Shall I tell it to you?"

"No."

"It'll pass the time." Pause. "Two thieves, crucified at the same time as our Saviour. One - "

"Our what?"

"Our Saviour. Two thieves. One is supposed to have been saved and the other..." Vladimir searches for the contrary of saved, "... damned."

She read on.

"I had a dream."

"Don't tell me! "

"I dreamt that -"

"DON'T TELL ME!"

Estragon gestures toward the universe. "This one is enough for you?"

Silence.

"It's not nice of you, Didi. Who am I to tell my private nightmares to if I can't tell them to you?"

"Let them remain private. You know I can't bear that."

Estragon, coldly. "There are times when I wonder if it wouldn't be better for us to part."

"You wouldn't go far."

She lingered a moment over the page and her thoughts - but the macchiato was finished. She had no further reason to stay.

The weekend came and went as the neverending cycle reset itself. In the same spartan hospital room, Ashley sat in her usual spot, facing a silent Emmanuelle whose eye looked out the window into the late-morning sky.

The horizon was unchanged - then again, Ashley hardly expected it to. Nineteen floors below the streets of Darlinghurst wove a chaotic tapestry of Victorian terraces that rose slowly up the hills of Paddington, spreading out to mid-rise apartments and a football stadium that loomed large in the cornflower-blue sky. The vista was blanketed by a golden haze of mid-morning light; a subtle filter that turned the prosaic suburb-scape into a magical beauty.

Ashley's gaze fell on her silent patient. "What do you see?"

A dark eyebrow rose in question. Clarify.

"You're always looking out the window. What do you see?"

No response. The blue eye continued to stare outside, seeming to live out a thousand lives in that faraway gaze, in that distant world.

"Would you like to go for a walk?"

That got her attention. Emmanuelle turned to face her, a hint of surprise evident in her obscured features.

Ashley smiled. "A walk. It's warm outside, and the sun's out. It would do the both of us some good."

There was a long moment's consideration, then a shrug. The intern watched as she rose to her feet; the statuesque height taking her aback removing her bandage from her face with a nonchalant tearing motion.

This time, she did not recoil from the vision, and made no move to look away. There seemed less violence in the deformity somehow - less impact in the gaping cavitation in her face, less revulsion in the vulnerable pink flesh. Ashley watched in silence, the touch of her eyes steady and calm. The patient seemed unperturbed by the intern's observation, fitting her prosthesis and replacing the fresh padding over her face with quick, economic motions.

Ashley rose to leave, but her patient was not yet ready. Opening a drawer, Emmanuelle pulled out a long roller-bandage and proceeded to bind her face, covering the bronzed, scarred skin in thick swaths of white - her cheeks, her cheekbones, her chin... All that remained was her eye, an empty socket, and her mouth.

She pulled on an eye patch and a beanie, then looked up, seeming to notice the scrutiny for the first time.

She spoke, her dark voice marred by an imperfect tongue. "It's for the passers-by."

Being outside was probably overrated, Ashley thought as she and her patient dodged angry traffic crossing to the park on the other side of the road. The air was dusty with construction work; the sound of drills and wrecking trucks so ubiquitous it was almost possible to allow it to recede into the background were it not for the need Ashley felt for conversation.

"When was the last time you've been outside?" She turned to her patient, forming her words carefully knowing that lip-reading was currently the most efficient form of communication.

There was a brief turn of the head, back towards the construction site. The mumble was lost in the bulk of bandages. Before they started digging.

Ashley smiled apologetically. "I guess this isn't the best of places, is it?"

They rounded past a gazebo up towards some moreton bay fig trees, taking some solace in the muted shadow.

Emmanuelle looked at her. "Others being?"

The blonde woman laughed with some exasperation. "Somewhere quieter for a start. I can barely hear you."

The look remained - as if she had answered the question.

"Well, the beach would be nice. Whenever the sun's out I feel like I need to be near water." They negotiated a twist in the footpath. "What about you?"

The taller woman stared intently at the trail before her, her obscured features deep in thought even as her shoulders relaxed into a slouch.

"Home."

Ashley's quick glance of surprise went unnoticed. "Do you miss home? Blackheath, I mean."

No response. The scuffle of shoes against the concrete became unbearably prominent, even against the din of the heavy machinery.

"Isn't that where you lived?" Ashley prodded, nudging a little further.

"Don't - " The closed features became something else - it was as if that very eye had growled, boring it into her own. "Ask anymore."

"Okay." The short reply did not conceal the puzzlement in her voice, and the touch of fear as well. She cocked her head, making an unsubtle attempt to change the subject. "They've stopped drilling. Let's take a walk."

Ashley started along the path, not really looking to see if the taller woman would follow her. A part of her cursed herself for even suggesting the idea - bringing someone as volatile as that, who has been cooped up in her hospital room for weeks... good one, Ashley. Very clever. She took in a breath, physically reminding herself that she was alive, normal, and her companion was not. She is mad - a certified borderline personality disorder with schizophrenic tendencies... I've give her four stars for her attitude alone...

Her thoughts continued to ramble, so much so that when she tripped over a slight crack in the footpath, she suddenly realised that she was walking alone.

"Oh shit - " She turned in a frantic spin, widened green eyes searching the busy park for the tall woman. Lunching couples and loitering drunks milled about the manicured grass, some strolling, some sprawled oblivious to the world around them - but none resembled the tall, lanky woman that was beside her. Preparing to launch into a litany of curses, Ashley stopped herself when she finally spotted a beanie hovering above a smattering of nurses just beyond the gazebo, somewhere near a low manicured shrub.

Ashley broke into a jog, slowing to a walk when she neared her patient, who stood silently, apparently contemplating the small hedge of bottlebrushes lining the path. She did not look up to meet her, and as Ashley settled up beside her, her eyes fell on the delicate fronds of stigmata that exploded from the hidden core of the flower like a tiny red fireworks frozen in a heartbeat.

Her angry fear diffused by the flower's exuberant beauty, Ashley reached out for one that was hanging precariously to a ripped stem. "This is beautiful - "

Suddenly, her hand was gripped hard, and pulled away. It was so fast, so sudden that Ashley could barely feel the stab of fear cut through her, only sensing her pounding pulse when she realised that strong fingers were wrapped around her wrist.

"Don't. Do. That." Each word was ground out, the words indistinct but firm. The pale gaze remained on her as the taller woman finally loosened her hold, gesturing to the shrub of flowers. "Those are native."

The unexpected words struck Ashley hard in the wake of fear - and it shamed her, realising what she had done. The touch on her hand was gentle, the look lacked the crazed fire she had seen in imagined terror.

She closed her eyes, giving herself a moment to regain her equilibrium, and regained possession of her hand. "You like flowers?"

Emmanuelle shrugged, indifferent once more. She began to walk along the path once more, and Ashley followed her in silence. They passed a few more native bushes before the trail wound into a small memorial garden, named for an eminent cardiac surgeon murdered not long ago. A thin plaque was adorned with rosebushes - blood red and cream - blooming exuberantly despite the din of traffic that surrounded them. Crouching to the loam, Ashley picked up a fallen flower from the grass and held it up to her nose.

"These smell really beautiful." She handed the dying rose to her companion - a peace offering. "Here."

Emmanuelle said nothing, accepting the flower with a slight smile.

Even if it weren't so unexpected, the expression would have taken Ashley's breath away. It was as if a spell had been lifted - the harsh features seemed to soften, lines of laughter appeared around her eye, the eyepatch - like dawn to a murky, twilight sky. Warm where it was barren, smooth where it had been harsh, angular - she could almost imagine the shattered face growing beautiful beneath the thick bandages...

Then she realised. She can't smell...

"I'm sorry - that was really insensitive of me..." Ashley fumbled, silently chiding herself once more. She looked away, biting her lip to stop recalcitrant tears that decided to well stingingly in her eyes at that moment. Shit, Ash - what the hell is wrong with you? Crying at the drop of a hat...

"It's alright." Emmanuelle's voice broke into her thoughts, the dark, fluid timbre urging her to turn back and face her. "You can never forget the smell of flowers."

The shadow of that smile still touched the edges of that mesmerising voice. Wiping at her face, Ashley recomposed herself and looked up to the taller figure, who watched her with that same unwavering gaze. With a nod, she took two steps and joined her patient against the low stone wall.

They leaned against the stone side by side, regarding the flower that laid in that large, chiselled hand. Long, artist's fingers began to trace the lips of the petals, which trembled under the subtle pressure - Ashley watched spellbound as Emmanuelle memorised the lushly red textures, inhaled with her touch the perfume that was, to her, a perfect sculpture that allowed a tangible caress beneath her fingertips.

The touch was so guileless, her features so open that moment - Ashley felt an inexplicable closeness to the raven-haired woman in a heartbeat, one that tripped in its rhythm when a blue gaze looked up and touched hers in a look of perfect understanding.

She spoke without volition, something within her needing to voice what had to be asked. "Emmanuelle... who did you - "

"Ashley!"

Ashley jumped, the faraway voice jerking her awake from the deep blue stare. She looked up to see a familiar figure jog up the path towards them.

The tall brown-haired man swept his arm around the intern's waist, drawing her smaller body into his. He kissed her soundly on the cheek, missing her lips as Ashley turned to greet him. "Hi baby, how are you?"

"Jake, I'm working - " She drew back, straightening her suit with slightly trembling hands.

He laughed, smoothing out his designer tailored shirt and tie. "Alright, alright. You're still up for tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Dinner. I'm cooking, remember?"

Ashley's features fell blank for a moment, the recovered. "Oh. Yeah. I'll be there."

"Can't wait. See you then." He brushed her cheek briefly, then continued up the path. Ashley watched him go, smoothing out yet again the imaginary crinkles in her suit that didn't seem to go away. She also felt Emmanuelle's eyes on her, compounding an discomfort within her that began to knot within her stomach.

She explained in a short word. "Boyfriend."

The taller woman's blue eye continued to look right into her. "Dinner. You forgot."

Ashley hesitated, running her hands through her hair. "He asked me a while back, that's all."

"He is a doctor here."

She nodded. "Orthopaedic registrar."

"You don't see each other often."

"He's very busy. He has final exams in a few months."

A film of sarcasm seeped into that dark, liquid voice. Or did Ashley only imagine it? "I'm sure you keep yourself busy too."

Stung, venomous green eyes looked up at her, a thousand reactions flying across her mind in one instant. She chose a the diplomatic option.

"I have a meeting. I'll walk you back up to your room."

It was close to eight o'clock by the time Ashley unlocked her front door, the smell of chicken stir fry greeting her before the sight of her hallway.

"You're late."

The tall figure appeared from the kitchen, dressed in casual sweater and cargo pants. His hair fell appealingly into his face, testament to a long session in the kitchen, and his hands were bring dried in a starched towel.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. The - the meeting went overtime." Sighing, she dumped her bag by her shoes and stalked to the nearest couch, sinking into it with a grateful surrender.

He watched her for a moment. "The food's getting cold."

"Oh - right." Closing her eyes, she struggled with her exhaustion for an uncountable moment. "How about you get me a drink - I'll be with you in a minute."

"Okay." His footsteps receded, leaving Ashley blessedly alone.

The dishwasher hummed in the background as Ashley changed into her pyjamas, grateful for the touch of the cotton against her skin. Another touch, however, manifested itself on her shoulders - hands that glided across the cotton then under it, lifting the material from her even as she fastened the buttons.

A pair of lips descended to the angle of her neck, brushing up to her earlobe.

Ashley turned away. "Jake..."

"Come on, Ash... it's been weeks - " The hands wandered down her back to graze her breasts in a gentle caress.

She stepped away from his touch and turned to face him. "Jake, why... why did you go through all this? You have exams, you hate cooking..."

An awkward silence fell.

"I know we haven't seen each other much for the last few months, and I've been kinda out of it, you know - " He raked his fingers through his hair, shifting slightly. "And I was thinking, you know - there's been lots of time for that in between studying and all that - well, I thought it'd be a good idea if we got married."

He looked up, forcing contact with the widened green stare. "You know - marry me."

In the purgatory of the moment Ashley was frozen, helpless to do anything but feel her entire life being lived through her body a thousand times. It was only with the changing of Jake's features that brought her back to the present, reminding her of the question, and the fact that she has no answer.

There was only one thing to do. She began to unbutton her pyjamas, her fingers cold with unfeeling. "Take me to bed, Jake."

He was moving on top of her. Yet she felt nothing, only the pressure as his weight bore itself into her body; he had tried to bring her to climax before with his tongue, but even then she had to force herself to gasp, will her stomach to spasm.

His breath was in her ear. But she did not hear it - her own thoughts ran loudly in the vaults of her mind, the focus of her being while her body lived another life.

"You did not come this morning."

In her mind's eye, she could only see that face - shattered and broken, watching her without enough flesh to demonstrate anger, sadness or betrayal.

"Blackheath, I mean. Isn't that where you lived?"

"Don't - ask anymore."

She felt his hands on her legs, lifting them against him - and sensed her unwilling body respond despite herself, the seeping warmth growing slowly into her core -

I want to know - know more, I want more...

Yes, more... She panted, her body growing desperate. She began to move against him, her hands gripping his back as she tried to tear more sensation from him with the force of her fingers. She began to unravel, a thin skein of string that gave way slowly, then blurred into a spinning whirl as she began to fall apart.

She opened her eyes and saw his face twist in pleasure - moments before it exploded, the jaw shattering, the nose tearing into a million pieces shattering blood all over her face, her neck...

"Oh god - " The shock sent her into orgasm, but not before she shut her eyes and saw a pale one watching her from within.

Emmanuelle sat in her chair, the room cast into darkness save the light of the moon. The remnants of a dinner left untouched had long been removed, and the ward outside was quiet - allowing the sounds of the night below to filter in through her window.

It was not sound, however, but sight that Emmanuelle concerned herself with. A silver bolt of light fell into her window and across the pages of a book in her lap, illuminating words that her eye focused on with intent concentration.

"I sometimes wonder if we wouldn't have been better off alone, each one for himself." Estragon crosses the stage and sits down on the mound. "We weren't made for the same road."

Without anger. "It's not certain."

"No, nothing is certain."

Vladimir slowly crosses the stage and sits down beside Estragon. "We can part, if you think it would be better."

"It's not worthwhile now."

Silence.

"No, it's not worthwhile now."

Silence.

"Well, shall we go? "

"Yes, let's go. "

They do not move.

Wrapped in a slategrey gown that trailed the floor, Ashley worked to a desklamp, her petite shadow cast in a tight round halo of light in the pitch-dark study. Beyond the doorway was a corridor the led into her bedroom, where Jake lay snoring quietly in a rumpled bed.

Before her sat the thick file detailing Emmanuelle's psychiatric history, separated into three chronological volumes. Medical files were strange things - psych files even more so:  a bound volume of patient's life and mind; her personality and nuances in character entirely dissembled in illegible scrawl and crumpled hospital note paper. Ashley felt this profoundly as she sat contemplating the scarred manila folder, her eyes tracing the marks of hundreds of interns, residents, nurses, consultants had left - creases, smudged fingerprints, ripped corners and torn pages...

She had been reluctant to refer to the notes, knowing that the best psychiatric history came from the patient alone. Yet, as Ashley opened the first volume, there was something more than simple professional pursuit of facts. Her scheduled encounters were not enough; meeting with Emmanuelle Blake in person was like meeting with a stirring reflection that was close to scattering - that just as soon as she felt she could resolve an image, the mercurial surface would shift and melt into dying ripples.

She needed to understand this strange, compelling woman - who had as many layers hidden within her as there were pages in her file.

Sighing, Ashley negotiated past the worn, dog-eared cover and admission forms, ready to settle into the progress notes when she noticed something fall free of the folder. She bent to pick it up; long, blonde hair falling in a wave that obscured the subject of what became evident as a photograph.

Holding it up to the light, Ashley's mind caught itself in a silent gasp as her heart seemed to stop.

She was beautiful.

There was the same, proud glare - from antelope-eyes that were clear, mesmerising; lips that were full, pressed in a belligerent scowl; cheekbones that accented a handsome face and an aquiline nose that was proportioned, flawless, there. Ebony hair fell about her face, covered the non-existent craniotomy scar on her scalp - lustrous even in the harsh light of the photo, the unyielding glare of the police mug shot.

Something obscured her jaw - to her shock, Ashley found it was her finger, tracing the lines on the photograph. Taking a deep breath, she replaced the picture in the file and shut it carefully, leaning into her chair as she considered her chaotic thoughts.

It was Wednesday morning, just before the magic hour of eight o'clock when meal trolleys, shower nurses, registrars with their entourage of residents and students and cleaners all converged on Cahill 19 to pick up breakfast trays, help leukaemic patients to their showers, commence ward rounds and clean up the mess left behind by the respective groups. The phenomenon known as the eight o'clock express brought all these elements together; lurching its way up the main building, the packed elevator sported a fully-lit panel of floor numbers to level twenty-one, as well as a sample population displaying responses that covered the whole Kubler-Ross spectrum from denial to anger to helpless acceptance.

Ashley stood in the centre of the human crush, her eye on the screen that flashed numbers before her eyes. Thirteen.

Her day had begun with two consults that she had been unable to complete the day before. Already on her third cup of coffee, she sensed the bleary eyes around her with some amusement and benign condescension, knowing that at least she didn't feel half as bad as they were feeling. Not anymore, anyway.

Taking a long sip from the warm cup in her hands, she steadied herself as the lift slowed to a stop, watching as the screen displayed "Fourteen" in a friendly Irish green.

"Good morning, Emmanuelle."

The voice drifted through the brusquely-opening door, followed by a quick, efficient rush of footsteps. It didn't take the voice for the dark patient sitting within the room to realise that the visitor was not the one she had expected - there was none of the softer footfalls that approached along the corridor, the neat rap of knuckles against the door before she entered.

"New medications written up for you today. Dr Wakelin popped in earlier to sign them off."

Carolyn busied herself with the small container of capsules and the medication charts, laying them down on the small bedside table. She would not have noticed the pale glare that fell on her at that moment were it not so out of place - the patient rarely acknowledged her presence at all, and spoke even rarer still.

"When?"

The gnarled word was ground out with little delicacy - startling Carolyn out of her efficient bustle and into that mesmerising, almost colourless gaze. She shrugged; though it was part-shiver, feeling something skitter down her spine like a flat stone across water.

"Oh, about an hour ago. She didn't stop by? She musn't have had time to speak with you today."

The cold regard left her, but the peculiar tension remained - thrumming in the air like a string plucked too hard. She placed a new set of bandages and gauze dressings on the bed, noting from the periphery of her vision that the silent silhouette remained deathly still.

"Miss the pretty blonde intern, do you?"

No response. Not that it was strange or anything, considering that she had just experienced the first word out of her patient for the past four weeks...

"There might be wedding bells over the horizon for her, you know. The orthopaedic nurses on level sixteen told me that surgeon boyfriend of hers was going to propose over the weekend. I wonder how it went..."

Gathering up the folder, the nurse pulled out a pen from her neatly-ironed tunic and prepared to signed off the medication chart. The crisp click of the pen echoed darkly in the room, something that a part of her mind noted and registered as a sense of unease - one that she tried to banish, yet again, with a sing-song, casual remark.

"Well, she probably won't come today, but surely tomorrow..."

She was making a move to leave when she noticed a shadow fall across the vinyl covered floor, obscuring her own. She turned, and nearly collided with the hulking form.

"Hey - "

Carolyn raised a hand to brush her away, but it was gripped painfully around her wrist by powerful fingers. Her eyes widened in panic.

"Let me go!"

She looked into the face that was obscured by a bandage, into the eye that seemed to burn with an insane fever. The distorted jaw shifted, as if trying to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, the taller woman maintained her grip on the struggling woman and took a step forward.

"Damn you, let me go!"

Her other hand reached into her tunic and grabbed something, then whipped up in a blurring arc towards the patient's neck in a punch. Instead of the jarring contact of fist on flesh, however, there came a sharp snap, like a tiny crack of thunder - and the patient stiffened, fingers slipping free of the grip as they were suddenly rendered nerveless.

At that point, the door opened; revealing Ashley Wakelin's horrified expression as she watched the tall, dark woman crumple to the ground.

"Help me."

Intern and nurse stood around their Goliath in a deafening silence, watching the near-human heap of arms and legs that lay sprawling along the floor. Ashley knelt beside her, bracing her arms around the larger woman's torso as she re-issued the terse command to the passive, motionless nurse.

"Help me lift her!"

Jolted from her spell, Carolyn knelt and gathered the patient's legs. With a brief glance between them, they took in a quick breath and hauled her up, Ashley nearly buckling under the weight as she bore the limp body; proud in surrender like a fallen lioness. With as much strength she could muster, she laid her softly to the bed, arranging the long, lifeless limbs into the recovery position when she was satisfied that her patient's airway was patent, that she was still breathing, that she still had a pulse.

Ashley stood for a long moment, watching the prone woman that was now on her side, semi-curled around her hands as if in slumber. She felt her own breathing calm after the exertion, her shoulders remembering the sheer weight of that tall frame, her fingertips remembering the firmness of trained muscle beneath the skin.

She sensed Carolyn moving in, fastening the restraints on her limbs and raising the siderails of the bed with metallic clicks. Surveying the room, Ashley spotted the small cartridge-like object on the ground and retrieved it, holding it up to the nurse with a cold glare.

"Is this what you use on all the patients? Shock them into unconsciousness like some animal?"

"She is an animal. She came at me like someone possessed. I had to protect myself."

"Do you all carry these on the wards?"

"They gave me when they assigned me to her because they knew she would turn violent. They don't have the resources to deal with someone like her here are the general hospital." Her eyes grew hard, accusatory. "You should never have changed her medication. The last prescription kept her tame. Do you know that you are putting the other patients at risk here?"

Ashley met them, her voice edged with steel. "I'll prescribe how I see fit."

"Well, do it where you can lock her up! I won't have a murdering psychopath running riot in the hospital!"

The blonde woman appeared to ignore her remark, turning her attention back to the unconscious woman on the bed.

"Thank you. I'll look after her now."

The nurse's glare remained on her for a heartbeat, then two - before she turned and left the room.

Feeling the weight of another's presence being lifted, Ashley took a breath in and out, closing her eyes to take stock of what had just transpired. Emmanuelle... I thought you different - I thought you changed...

Taking a few paces to the foot of the bed, she let down the siderails and untied the restraints. Pulling up a chair alongside her, Ashley found to her surprise that her patient watched her with a steady, unreadable gaze.

She sat down with a faint hiss of leather giving way. At this level they were nose to nose, eye to eye - concern was evident in Ashley's as she examined that obscured face, the rumpled gauze that was almost loosened from her skin entirely.

She reached out, removing the bandage carefully. "Are you alright?"

There was no response. The same gaze looked into her, almost seeming to speak to her in its intensity.

Ashley tried to find another focus for her eyes - the tiny crease on the bedding, just beneath the tanned, scarred cheek. "Did you attack Carolyn?"

The eye flickered, giving her an answer. A slight furrow appeared between blonde eyebrows, the sharp bite of dismay dissolving painfully in her chest.

"Why?"

No answer. The pale regard returned - Ashley felt it on her skin like a feathertouch, felt it roam from her eyes to her mouth to her ear to her hair...

"Emmanuelle..."

The large, chiselled hands that lay soft before the shattered face lifted, almost reaching out to touch. Ashley did not shy away, watching those fingertips drift closer, closer, an infinite journey with no destination.

A garbled whisper. "You remind me of someone - "

Somehow, a pang almost as real as pain snapped in Ashley's heart - one that seemed to release a well of tears. Her face flinched, biting back a sob, empathically feeling an incredible loss in that indistinct whisper.

"You wanted to know. By the rose garden."

"Emmanuelle..." Not now. Not here... I just want to know you -

"She whispered my name like you. She came and left... I waited for her - "

The gaze dropped, filled with that hollowness that showed things only that gaze could see, things that were impossible to turn away from.

"Her hair was gold but the blood turned it to brown - "

You killed her? "You... loved her?"

Emmanuelle stared at her hands. "I didn't know how."

Ashley watched her, staring into the empty cradle of her hands - palms that held imagined horrors of the past that only the dark woman could see, the sin that haunted that shattered, damned face.

Tears spilled from her eyes as Ashley reached out and placed her own hand within hers.

Friday afternoon. Ashley paced down the corridor of Cahill 19, feeling comfortably stuffed and caffeinated from the end-of-term case presentation session that had just concluded at Caritas. Two other colleagues aside from herself had presented cases, and she was satisfied enough with her own performance. None of the satisfaction came as close, however, to the relief that yet another term was over.

Neatly dressed in a rather demure sleeveless dress that dared a voyeuristic split up the thigh, she took determined steps down the hallway bearing her briefcase in one hand and a huge bunch of flowers in the crook of an arm. The surefooted steps failed, however, as she approached bed thirty - that familiar beige door that was now forever set apart from all the other beige doors that lined the ward. She raised her briefcased hand and knocked, then pushed open the door.

She didn't exactly see the blue glance past the armful of flowers, but she could feel the touch of it, the slight arch of a dark eyebrow against her skin.

"From the florist. Just so you know I didn't go raiding the park across the road." Allowing a smirk, she set the exuberant bouquet on the bedside table and admired it at length, almost afraid to turn to face her awaiting patient.

She closed her eyes, knowing in safety that her face was obscured from that all-seeing gaze. "I have to go."

There was silence. Her mouth twitching at the lack of words that came, Ashley lifted a curious hand a twiddled with a branch of bluegum, tracing the almost-perfect curves of the silvery-green leaves. "My term's finished. I - I'm moving on to the Kid's Hospital."

"You like children." It wasn't a question. "You'll have fun."

"Professor Klein will be taking up your case again, until you leave hospital, that is. I guess it won't be long - seeing how you seem to heal well and all, it should be a couple of weeks at most before you can go back to - "

She trailed off with a silent curse, mentally kicking herself for her sloppy tongue even as she wondered where her patient would go back to. Gathering herself, she turned to finally face her patient, seated in her usual spot, in her usual chair, with a book lying closed in her lap.

She took a breath. "Emmanuelle, I want to thank you -"

A shrug, unbearably indifferent. "Why bother?"

"Because..." Ashley trailed off, unable to quality her answer. "Just - because."

The other woman said nothing. She simply sat, watching her with an indecipherable expression. Not quite knowing what she was waiting for, and not quite understanding what she was expecting, the blonde intern turned to leave. "Well, I wish you all the best - I can't say I want to see you again; nothing personal, but I'd like to think we can keep you out of hospital for as long as - "

Emmanuelle closed her good eye. "Ashley."

Her name was like a prayer; it stopped everything, the whisper turning the air into glittering crystal.

Ashley felt that same pang within her chest, but this time, it resonated like a clear, ringing bell...

"Goodbye, Ashley."

She looked over her shoulder, a smile of wonder curling her lips as their eyes touched. "Goodbye."

The footsteps retreated, followed by the soft click of the door. It stirred the sunwarmed stillness of the room, a tiny ripple that spread and diffused in the glow of the afternoon.

Emmanuelle breathed in the quietening air from her shattered face, and smelled the scent of flowers.

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