The Woman Across the Window

    Every morning, I wake up to the sound of knocking on the window. I know it’s from the window because there are no other materials in this empty box that would make such a noise. The window is tall and slightly narrow, just enough space for the Woman to make herself visible. All day and all night, she torments me as if she has nothing else to do. Whatever move I make, she makes. Whenever I speak or scream or yell, she does the same, yet no sound leaves her mouth. I pound on the glass, and she does the same, but there’s no weight to her closed fists. 

    Sometimes, I find myself feeling grateful for the Woman since I don’t get much else here. At the same time, I wish for a more amicable partner in this tiny, tiny world. I don’t remember how long it’s been, and I think I’ve been here my whole life. I don’t remember anything before these two rooms, only parted by the window.

    I only know when days pass because of my clothing. I wear a white jumpsuit with a glass sphere attached to the cuff of my right sleeve. It glows during the day and shuts off when nighttime comes. I think that’s what it means. After every day passes, the Woman looks dirtier and dirtier. Her hair gets crazier and crazier. The white jumpsuit gets less and less white. Funny. So does mine.

    I know what hair is and I know what “crazy” means because of the slot under the window. Sometimes, she won’t mock me. The Woman will pass little books through the slot. Food, too. I wonder why she doesn’t need it.