Awoken out of the oblivion of nonexistence. She stood with her back to the doorway dyed in deep black shadows. The doorway led further into the back of the building and she knew that she had just entered from there but she did not remember doing so. The young woman was about seventeen or eighteen years old with her blond, almost silver hair gathered into a ponytail. Behind black-rimmed glasses her eyes glinted like bright blue chips of ice. She was dressed in a peculiar piece of clothing, a uniform of sorts, of ink blue color.

  As always, she couldn't move and the Voice was about to speak. She knew that if she could turn around there would be no one standing behind her. She cursed that knowledge because it was not her own. Neither was the curse. Neither was anything.

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  The Voice spoke: “Picture a forest floor, soil and moss and pieces of bark perhaps, it does not matter. I reach down and dig tiny intricate tunnels into the ground. Above I pile pine needles, mulch and other unimportant pieces that might belong there. It might not be perfect but look! I made an anthill. Like spilling a bag of tiny black skittles I cast ants over the hill I made for them. There they lie, inanimate, lifeless. And then, by my will, the ants begin to stir.”

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