“Why are you afraid of getting better?” the women with the dark eyes and darker hair asks 5000 miles away but sitting in the woman’s living room.

“Who said I was scared”

“My third eye is telling me.”

“You and your third I can….” the woman goes silent.

Picking the conversation back up she starts again. “What do you want me to say, I’m scared of getting better because what if you leave when that happens: or some psychobabble about chaos and peace?”

“You know that I don’t want you to say anything.”

The woman looks down at the floor and starts to speak again “don’t you get it, there is no better for me. I don’t heal, I don’t learn to function, it over for me, its been over since I was born.” Still staring at the floor, Rance continues speaking. “I’ve been living on borrowed time. I was never meant to survive this long.” She stands up and begins to pace in front of the computer monitor. “You don’t fucking understand.”

“Rance, what don’t I understand?”

Rance continues pacing. “You don’t fucking understand what it’s like to already be dead. To live like a ghost; surviving every day until all your ectoplasm fades away.”

“Why do you feel like you are living on borrowed time? The therapists asks trying to get a larger picture.

“Because I am. I was supposed to die when I was four.”

“Why on earth would you believe that.” The therapist questions Rance.

Rance, exasperated “I have told you before, my mom tried to kill me when I was a kid. I should have died that day. It is a mistake that I am still here. I am a mistake; my life is an unwelcome survival on people. “Sitting back down Rance puts her head in her hands.  “I shouldn’t be here, I just wish I could leave. I don’t want to be here anymore. Its all to heavy.” Uncomfortable silence fills both rooms.