Reasons I might still be insane:

                1) I think you're real and might actually talk back.

                2) Lights float around my head. I have conversations with them also.

                3) My chest hurts really bad. I've been known to bite my own arm. This time, I hurt myself far worse than a simple bite. I think I caused some damage. When next I try to kill myself, I'll take more care.

              4) I'm living in a cave deep in a remote canyon.

             5) Behind me is a cage. In it, I've trapped a girl.

Today, the sun is out so I'm sitting in the deep shadows of my home-cave. Bright sunlight, like what reflects off the red rocks of this desert, makes my eyes painfully swell. Partially, because I remember I have pale blue eyes. Also, bright light makes my light friends wink in and out around my head. After so long underground, they know I'm having a hard time adjusting. I tell them I won't throw myself off this ledge without warning them. They of course don't believe me. They should know, with all my faults, I'm still a very honorable guy.

Sunlight isn't my only problem.

No, I'm not a vampire. I thought you might be wondering. Even though the solution to me turned out to be the same as what I use to do to them. With vampires, we would stake 'em (I wasn't staked, wish I had been) and bury them deep underground. After meeting handfuls of vampires, I found them nasty and deserving. On many a long dark day, I have apologized to them. If you're reading this and a vampire who is buried underground with a stake in your chest, I'm sorry. It's on my list to dig you up. Hopefully, I will get to that soon.

       List of things to do:

          1) Find my sanity—where are you sanity?

          2) Learn to live in the sun

         3) Fix my hair

         4) Warn my light friends before I jump off this cliff

        5) Dig up the vampires

I'm still getting use to my freedom. My long legs automatically kink at the knees like they are unable to fit into my home. The cave is spacious with a large wind-carved mouth. I picked it because while it gave me the shade I need, it's also roomy enough that it might help me in acclimating to larger areas. However every morning when I wake, I find myself face down in the dust, gripping the red dirt and shuttering. Trying to venture out during the day, the horizon tilts on a very unforgiving angle and my head spins. I have trouble breathing with so much available air. A few times, I've fainted until far after dark.

I mentioned that I'm a mess—right?

Wish she wouldn't cry.

My light friends are blinking, again. They only do that when they want to get my attention. In the box it was easy. There was nothing to see in the darkness so they made quiet the show. Their gradual arrival within the box was the first sign my mind had fried. I like them anyway. The blue one is Sky, green light is Emerald, and the red one is Flicker. There is also a yellow light named Topaz but she's moody and doesn't help much.

My job is to figure out what they want from me. I'm awake–so can't be that. Got dressed, or wait let me check—yup, I have pants and a shirt on, all be the shirt is very shredded. Flicker hates it that since finding clothing I still can forget to wear it. I changed the bandage on my chest, thus why it's shooting sparks of pain along my side making it hard to breathe. Dressing a large wound is never fun. Having the large wound in my chest vs another guy's, even less of a good time.

The lights didn't like it when I swallowed the colored pebbles the people gave me. The pebbles made my head feel like it was stuffed with clouds. They (the people and the pebbles) helped when I was first transitioning to being outside the box. But after swallowing the pebbles, I couldn't always see my light friends and I would become too sluggish to move. So I broke out of the White Building, cut the bracelet off my ankle—sounds crazy but I think the bracelet was helping the people find me—flew to this canyon, and hid in this cave.

Another reason I like the cave. The pebble pushing people have yet to find me in it. Shhhh—don't tell them.

Wake, sleep, clothing, wound—what am I missing? Oh, must be I need to eat. With shaky legs, I stand. Was hard to re-learn but I've got walking again—and a little jog and a bit of hunting. The lights, Topaz, Flicker and Emerald give me two blinks. In little light talk that means "yes". (One blink is "no".) The lights are trying to fatten me up. The thought of being anything other than emaciated makes my face stretch in a tight way. Once, I would have smiled, now I just get a tight face.

I get why my light friends worry. Partially, because the three of them have the mental wherewithal to be concerned. (The forth light, Topaz, seems to have only the brain power to fly in dizzying circles—and they call me crazy. I can at least fly in a straight line. Mostly.) Also, at the White Building with the people who liked to force me to swallow pebbles, I caught my reflection. In the past, I have been called handsome, a sight to behold and even mystic. The sight I saw in the reflect glass of the White Building was worrisome. Sure, I mean, I guess I should have known. I appeared—well, er, I guess the word would be—deranged? My eyes were red, my completion bone white. I could see every bone and tendon within my arms. After I saw what thousands of years in a box does to one, I had a moment of lucidness. In those few minutes, I cut my hair.

I think less hair has improved my appearance considerably.

Maybe my physique is still unfitting for courting a girl. Not sure my girl is in the mood for male companionship anyway...

Sitting down, and searching in the backpacks the three lights blink once. "No."

I drop the apple I was about to eat. Opposite side of the cave from the cage is where I've stored my other food. When I ate that food near the girl it made her draw into a ball and whimper. I took that as her being uncomfortable with my diet choices. This is why today I picked the apple. I have explained this to my light friends.

"Really? What else do you want of me then?" My words ring of the stone walls. I wince.

I've noticed when I scream at the lights, like I just did, the girl stops crying. She yells at things too. Words like "Crazy" and "Son-of-a-Bitch". Girls in the village near my home use to like flowers, wonder if that's still true with women? I'm in a desert, although it is one with a large river running through it. Bet it would be hard to find lots of flowers...

I think the word "Crazy" means in my language "insane". The people with the pebbles used the word "crazy" to describe me also. The second phrase "Son-of-a-bitch" is said all as one word. I believe, after studying these peoples syntax it is multiple words with one meaning. I use to learn languages as easy as breathing. These days, having gone so long between hearing the human voice, I'm a little out of practice. Still, guessing it's a phrase and by the girl's tone, it is an insult or defamation. Akin to me yelling "troll eater" or "mother lover of goats". That kind of thing.

It could be that the girl and I have gotten off to a bad start.

And yes I call her a girl. Would you rather I call her a woman? She is not young, nor is she too old. Thus I struggle to define her. Once, her age would have been within the range of females I would have been interested in courting. But due to our current living arrangements—and that is her being held in a cage—I'm not sure how to refer to her.

My light friends are buzzing and blinking. Or, three of them are. I haven't seen Topaz do more than circle the roof of the cave in days. Sky, the blue light, keeps flying behind the bend in the cave where the girl is kept. This is a problem. The lights must want me to assist her. I've tried explaining to them that the cave is full of rocks, whenever I'm within range, the girl uses these rocks as objects to bounce off my skull.

I did explain to you and my friends, what the plan was when I built the cage. No one said anything, so I went and did it. Of course, the lights only blink and buzz and you're only along for the ride—still I had a good plan. See, there are boats that float down the river. They come fairly often and I can see them from up here in my cave. The people in the boats like to stop on the sandy spit below. Before the girl, I'd been helping myself at night to the supplies in their packs and boxes. Never fear, I make my helping resemble an animal. I might be insane, but I've never been stupid.

Because the river traffic is fairly consistent and because they float down often in groups of boats, I figured this is the main trade route. Fully stating, much about this area and time is completely foreign to me, like I said, never been stupid. However, the White Building was ill-equipped to help me more. Also, on a previous attempt to leave the White Building, again I blame the bracelet they put on my ankle, the people found me and locked me back up. Thus, I think it is better I remain hidden until I'm stable and can make a better plan.

My idea, as stated, was to use one of the boatmen and have him teach me his language and customs. And, do to my still being extremely weak, and easily confused, I waited until a raft touched the shore with only one occupant. That night, when the boatman went to sleep, I tied him up and carried him to my self-made cage so we could get acquainted.

I then pushed some of the boatman's less interesting possessions and the boat downstream. There's nasty whitewater in the next bend of the river. Should other traders come searching, it will resemble an accident in which the boatman drowned.

Taking into account my current state of shattered mind, I thought it all worked well. The boatman was easy to capture, being asleep and far from anyone else to hear him scream, and the craft made a most believable wreck at the bottom of the rapids. However, my plan hit one major and unforeseeable snag. The boatman, turned out to be a boatwoman, a silken blond hair youthful woman. (She was wearing a hat and baggy pants. It was an easy mistake to make.)

I've told her all this, from the shelter of a boulder—she has good aim with her rocks and she screams when I try and talk. She does not understand my language and I feel I'm not using hers accurately. Again, why I need a person to converse with.

       My list for the boat girl:

                    - Remove the rocks within arm's length of her cage.

                    - Learn her language.

                   - Learn her customs.

                  - Figure out why she smells of summer berries.

                  - Try to keep her alive long enough to do all those things.

... there are other thoughts here. But this is when my minds fizzes out like a lit twig in water. Also, when I've talked about my thought with my light friends they give me their upset buzz.

The girl is out of drinking water. I can tell this because she just tried to hit my head with her metal water vessel. The bottle missed this time but did make contact with my back. It didn't hurt when it thumped against me, and thus must be empty. Talks volumes about how our relationship is evolving in that I can tell bottles fullness by how it echoes on impact...

I wonder if the next step in our relationship will be me knowing a rocks mineral composition by the ringing it leaves in my ears when it hits my skull.

It's her own fault she is so thirsty. I know how this must sound like I blame her for being in the cage. It's not so. I placed her in the cage thus she is my responsibility. This is why every morning I go down to the river and fill bottles for her. At first, she would smell the water and dump it out then throw the bottles at me. The water from the river is acceptable, I drink it. In fact, it is very much better than having no water—I know from experience. After several days, she has stopped being so picky and is drinking what I provide but still lobbing the bottles at me—clearly.

She did try and have me get one of her bags. We communicated this via hand pointing. As she abstained from throwing rocks and bottles, I went where she pointed. In her bag, in a pouch that took far too long to figure out how to open, I found a container with green pebbles.

Don't worry, I have had enough experience with colored pebbles that I stopped her from placing them in her water. From my time at the White Building, I know the feeling the pebbles give one can come in many forms. Normally, it's from swallowing the pebbles. If one decides to spit the pebbles back at the people holding one down, they come in liquid and then if that's vomited up, it comes via a bee sting to the arm. If you are to suddenly be where I've been—avoid the pebbles in all their many forms. I did the girl a favor by throwing her green pebbles down into the canyon.

The girl's skin is pale—or paler than yesterday. I noticed this as of this morning. I wonder if it is what my light friends are saying. The girl is grasping a rock but does not heave it at me when I retrieve the water bottle from where it rolled. Her back is propped against the wood wall of the cage. Sadly, here in the desert, there is a lack of good building materials. I used all the wood I could find to give her a nice place to be until we are better acquainted. This means I no longer have a fire at night. I miss the light and warmth of flames, but the girl is worth the sacrifice.

Again, I tried to explain this to her—I got a rock thrown at me.

For a river trader, her known languages are limited. I know many, she knows none of them. Her brow did crease when I spoke a dialect found across the ocean—almost like she understood me. She is strange.

Why do I say this?

Well, I told you she dresses like a boy in that she is wearing pants the color of sand and a faded oversized red button-down shirt. Her clothing only obscures her sex. I mean, why would a woman not wear a skirt or dress that shows off her curves? After all, isn't a woman's only asset her body?

I have studied this particular woman at length, she would really do well showing off more skin and a lot more of her figure. I have noted that she does, despite her awkward clothing, have a body any warm-blooded male would enjoy viewing. I think it is her lack of feminine display that has led her to be all alone on the river.

Another weird thing about her is that she would be so finicky about what she drinks. Strange, right?

She also does not resemble the people I once met in this area. Yes, I do understand where I am. Or at least I think I do. Once, I loved to travel and visited many human cultures. Meeting with humans was a hobby of mine. Also, I preferred human woman, and I enjoy getting to know them in all the many ways men and women can discover each other, so my traveling was a well-rewarded hobby in that regard. I have figured with my confinement that my enemies while being screaming morons, did have the withal to remove me from my native land. Also, from my travels, I know of this red rock desert. The people who once lived here had a tanned complexion. Their women had long dark shimmering hair. This girl has a pale complexion and hair the color of gold.

This deeply troubles me.

Near my castle, there was a village. In this village, there was a beautiful girl with hair like ripe wheat. Her name was Helga and in my youth, I liked to sneak over and yank on her braids. Over my long captivity, I have apologized to Helga repeatedly. Her and everyone else I have wronged. I know, that her bones are dust, still I hope she forgave me.

Where Helga and I grew up there were long harsh winters that turned our homeland to snow and ice. This place I'm in is a desert—as stated. Why would a girl from the ice be here in the land of the sun? The clear answer disturbs me. I take the girl's water bottle and move around the corner to the opening of the cave. She has the skin and hair of the people who lived near me when I was young. I have not seen those people for so long, my heart hurts at the thought. When I see her it brings me back to another time. I worry, the girl in the cage appears as she does because of the break in my mind. Should I be able to fix myself, the woman I hold captive might either fail to exist at all or be a dark-skinned hag. Just hope she is still female. Really would be messed up if I perceive that wrong. With me, nothing would be a surprise—even that.

I swap out the empty water bottle with a full one. From learning the hard way, also known as being stoned, in returning I take great care at approaching the cage. The girl sees me but does not raise the rock clutched in her hand. I ease the bottle between the bars and she takes it. Raising it to her nose, she sniffs the water and signs before taking a sip.

Satisfied she has enough to drink, I lower myself down and lean my back against the wall of her cage. I've noticed that when I face her she draws away with a shudder. I'm hoping this posture is enough to get her to relax and see my friendly intentions.

"Nice haircut," she says.

I understand.

My ability to absorb languages must be returning. "Nice" means "Good". "Haircut" is what the guards said after I trimmed my floor-length hair. I had wondered if the unevenness of my rush job would be unappealing to a woman. She likes it. My face goes tight. I am proud.

When she talks the meanings within her tone is still hard to discern. She said her words rather evenly. I have traveled great distances. Still, I find myself at a loss in understanding the subtitles of the weaker sex. This, I'm sure in time, I too will master.

She signs. "What's your name?"

Another promising step. My heart pounds harder. She is making an attempt at building our friendship. I steady myself, glad my back is to her so she can't see the reaction written upon my face. I have purposely tried to let her make the first move. Also, I've prepared an answer should she ask this question. I know this must seem strange to you. That we would have spent this time together and still something as common as her name is unknown.

I take a hasty drink from the second water bottle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. In the White Building, they gave me a name. I was fine with it as I was unaccustomed to talking at that point. As the name is in her language, and others in the White Building also shared the first part of the name, I call myself by it so that she will trust me.

"John Doe," I say confidently.

She groans. From my peripheral vision, I can see she rolls her eyes. I may have misjudged the name. Or possibly she knows another with this same name? Hard to tell.

"Whatever, scary," she says.

She has called me this before, Scary. First, when she used it, I thought it another of her insults like "Mother fucker" or "Son-of-a-Bitch" as those titles she screams at me often. Within the past few days, her voice is leveler when she uses this term. She also uses "Boy" in front of "Scary." I know that from the White Building the word for my gender is "boy" and the word "you" another part of the statement, is the person being address. Thus, I think, when she says: "Boy you're scary." She is giving me a deserving title.

To help her trust me, I try to be agreeable.

"Yes," I say while nodding. "I scary." And applaud myself for being able to string together multiple words in her language.

She chokes on her water. I think it is my voice. Once, long ago I was renowned for my ability to sing. The ladies would swoon when I picked up my lyre and often, after a performance, would offer to bed me. But, my body has suffered from unused, my voice is no exception. When I talk, my tone sounds of gravel and dirt, the very thing in which I have spent so much of my life.

When she's recovered from choking, I take my turn to ask her a question.

"What's your name?" I use the same infections she does, in case her language is tonal.

She narrows her eyes. I turn my head slightly, knowing that I frighten her. The color of her eyes stills me. I'm close to her, much closer then she has previously allowed me do to her rock-throwing talents. She smells of berries and her eyes are as green as my light friend, Emerald. It all makes me think of my home and again my heart hurts.

"Bec," she says.

Disappointing. I let out a breath. Here I thought we'd made progress. "Bec" sounds like another of her insults.

"Or Rebecca, my friends call me Bec." Her gaze slides along my form. "Why don't you call me Rebecca."

I attempt to weed through her words. "Rebecca, Bec," I repeat.

"Whatever," she says and slumps into the covers she uses for sleep. I take this as my cue to leave before she uses my head for target practice with that rock. 

Hello Reader - If I get eyes on this I will publish more of the story. (Yes it is complete) So let me know you care and I will send love your way. AND THANK YOU FOR PICKING THIS STORY.

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