text: I jerk awake at 8:45 and fall out of bed, crack my head on the side-table on the way down and collapse onto the floor. ‘Ngggg,’ I groan, then force myself up. I’m late. I can barely afford this hovel of an apartment. Regardless of my feeble mental state I’ve got to go. I dress and exit and I’m at work in ten minutes. Breathing heavily, I clock in and head upstairs. As I enter the office, there’s no bored murmur, just the whir of the air-con and heavy silence. Lucy, the office manager is stood addressing the room. ‘He was a great guy to work with, full of banter, such a lad, but a great worker,’ she says then stops awkwardly. I hear myself laughing. Our eyes meet across the room. A hundred heads turn to follow her gaze. The laughter dies in my throat. ‘Is something about Phil’s death amusing to you, Mr?’ Lucy says. ‘Philip Coast?’ I say. ‘Yes, yes, died, dead, Mr, who are you anyway?’ she says. I point at the photo on the lanyard round my neck then peer closely at the writing beside my face. ‘Paul,’ I say, uncertainly and start laughing again. I try to hold it back but I can’t and it bursts out of my mouth. ‘And what is funny, Paul?’ she says, shrilly. I flee the room, still cackling. ‘Who are you?’ she yells after me but I’m already legging it down the stairs. I buzz myself out at reception and jog home at a more manageable pace, unable to remove the smile from my face. I enter the block take the lift up to the thirteenth floor, open my door and shut it behind me. I go straight through to the bathroom and fish in the medicine cabinet beside the shower cubicle. There they are, sleeping pills leftover from that little manic episode last summer. I grab a glass of water from the kitchen and sink down onto the couch in the lounge. I pop the pill bottle and swallow a couple then stare blankly at my reflection in the TV for fifteen minutes before my legs turn to jelly. A wave of tiredness washes over me but I resist, even if unconscious is my purpose. This warmth. It fills me up. My eyes snap open and adjust to the low light. I’m on a metal walkway, suspended high above some kind of huge, empty hangar. I’m face to face with a grey man. The same grey man, with a new face. ‘Who am I?’ I say. ‘See for yourself,’ he says, slips a makeup mirror from the top pocket of his grey jacket and flips it open. ‘Oh, a girl,’ I say, surprised, looking down at myself. ‘Indeed.’ ‘Who, are, you?’ I say, jerkily, feeling out my new mouth. ‘That doesn’t concern you. What is concerning, son, is that you’re only one man. Only one.’ ‘This just won’t do,’ a grey lady says, emerging from the shadows. The same grey lady, with a new face. ‘Agreed, agreed, it just won’t do,’ the grey man says. They embrace then release and, still clasping their hands together, they turn to face me. ‘Where are you?’ they say in unison. ‘I don’t know,’ I say, looking around. ‘No, where are you, really?’ the grey lady says. ‘Son, you’re better off, off this course, see?’ the grey man says. ‘Where are you?’ they say, in unison. ‘Where are you, now?’ ‘Now? I’m at home... on the couch?’ I say, blurrily. ‘Where are you though? Where are you, really?’ they say together, their voices overlapping one another. What the fuck is this? ‘I’m home, I’m home at the...’ I trail off. I can’t think straight. ‘But where are you now, really, inside, in you, where are you, really?’ they say in unison. A flicker in my brain catches light. ‘I’m home, I’m on the couch, thirteenth floor, thirty-three years old, 2:37pm, light through the blinds, tired, really, tired.’ ‘Where are you now?’ they say. ‘No, please,’ I say, the repetition hurts. ‘Where are you, really?’ ‘Only answers. Only answers will suffice,’ my mind says and my mouth opens. ‘Room one two seven, thirteenth floor, Hadfield Heights, N7 6BB.’ My mouth snaps shut and the pain in my brain ceases. ‘Good,’ the grey man says. ‘Good,’ the grey lady agrees. ‘OK?’ I say, hopefully. ‘Did I do good mummy and daddy?’ in the back of my head. ‘Oh yes, dear,’ the grey lady says as I watch my legs walk towards her and sink to their knees. She sits down beside me and ruffles my hair then pats her lap, and I crawl forward and lay my head down. ‘There, there, dear, everything’s going to be fine,’ the grey lady says. My lids are heavy, the blond ringlets of my female-self fall across my face and my breathing slows. Wait. I hear something. My heart quickens and my eyes open. I’m lying alone on the cold metal of the walkway. The greys are gone. Noises all around me, echoing in the hangar. Amplified scraping and scrabbling, a door creaking open, quiet mutterings and footsteps. Something is wrong. I pick up the discarded makeup mirror on the walkway, flip it open and look at myself. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, and dive off the walkway. The world rushes up to meet me. Crunch.