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In the hospital, where she signed herself back in, she lay in the bed wide awake humming to herself. The humming turned into full bore singing. After 10 minutes her roomate grumbled, “SHUT UP NEVA!” The girl curled her pillow around her head rolling over with a growl.

“Sorry Willamina!” She giggled making butterflies in the shadows on the wall.

“Oh hell my name is not Willamina!” The woman hit her bed several times picturing Nevaeh’s face. She really needed to request a new roommate the next day. This woman drove her crazier than she thought she was. Living with Nevaeh had made her feel down right sane again. If she was given another rock from the woman she was going to smash it into her head. This woman’s sunshine was causing her anger issues.

“Right! Right… that was the old roommate. You are Jacqueline, right?” She was creating a shadow story on the wall. “Look there is a mean old dog trying to eat the butterflies. They need saving, you wanna come save them, Amanda?”

“UGGGGHHHHH, my name is Karen! KAREN!” She shouted at Nevaeh.

“Quiet.” The nurse said from the door. “People are trying to sleep and you two are keeping them awake.”

“Sorries nursy, I will shhhhh. We will be quiets” She said with a giggle.

Karen’s mouth dropped open, she looked in disbelief from Nevaeh to the nurse and back. Finally she growled loudly and covered her head with the pillow mumbling incoherently.

Nevaeh was getting restless. The shadow puppets were getting boring. She needed to get out of there. On the bed she jumped and slid over the ceiling tile. After putting it back in place she used the pipes above to climb to the vent. With her hands and shoes against the metal, she spidered her way up to the top and climbed out the large pipe onto the roof.

She walked to the edge and looked over, “Ohhhhh that looks pretty far.” But her hands felt the line of the edge. It was firm and sturdy. Climbing up she didn’t mind the snow and ice on it. In her mind, she could see an audience there where the night sky was, she began to flip over and cartwheel on the edge of the building. It was a whole gymnastic routine flipping and spinning on what she seen as a balance beam. At the end she threw her arms in the air and listen to the crowds all from her own mind, cheer for her.

“Bravo to me! Bravo me! On core! On core!” To which she did another routine, and another. After every routine she called for more, from herself. It was nice being outside and getting fresh air instead of the stale air in the hospital.

Doctors shouldn't smoke. It creates a bad impression on their patients. They look at him in his surgical scrubs, smell the tobacco in his hair, and strike the roofs of their mouths with their tongues. They sound like clucking hens and he imagines them like that all the time now. Those around him are just dumb animals and the only thing interesting about them is how their insides work. Laszlo doesn't feel like he's operating on people: the kind with loving family members, with hopes and dreams, and a rich history. They're like machines to him and he's the mechanic fixing their fleshy, broken parts. He doesn't speak to his patients and doesn't meet them. He waits until the anaesthetic is in full effect before he walks into the operating theatre too. They blame his ways on his Hungarian origins for the fact that he often refuses to speak English around his colleagues. What he does say, he conveys in a rude and impatient tone. Most people avoid him and because of that, he easily finds time to sneak up to the roof of the hospital for a break.

Laszlo props the door open with a shard of breezeblock left over from when the building was undergoing maintenance in the spring. He walks autonomously to the south-facing edge; lighting a cigarette as he moves. The view settles him by putting things into perspective: it reminds him of how small he is and how smaller his daily chores are. The nicotine also helps. Laszlo’s free hand cups the end of his cigarette to guard it from the howling wind. He keeps his head close to his chest too; his jacket is pulled tight around him. He doesn’t notice that he’s not the only one here until he hears the sound of laughter and the slap of flesh on concrete. He comes to a hasty stop and looks up. That’s when he sees her; the escapee from the lunatic ward.

The distinction is made on the grounds of her actions and the starchy gown she is wearing; the off-white material follows her movements a half second too slow causing a staggered image. Laszlo doesn’t think it’s wise to approach her, even if she is dangerously near the edge. There’s no spark inside that urges him to pull her away from the threat of falling; he watches her with scientific curiosity. The ground ripples beneath his feet as he takes a tentative step forward. She hasn’t noticed him yet and continues to complete an acrobat’s performance. Another small step forward and he feels his body tensing like he is hunting a deer. He’s only a metre away by the time she spins in his direction; hair flowing around her shoulders. He becomes very still. If she’s as crazy as she looks, then she might not even notice him standing here

A half twist no handed summersault completed the routine. She threw her hands in the air triumphantly listening to the applause she had only seen on T.v. The scent had caught her nose earlier but she had ignored it, now it was even stronger.

“Smoking kills you know. Can I have one?” She didn’t bother to even look at the one who had a lit cigarette, instead she was stretching for the next routine. It was after all only proper to stretch before the biggest routine. Her feet were nimble and bare now, it was how she was holding on to the edge of the building so well.

With her back bent she was doing what is known as a bridge, where her hands and feet both touch the ground but she is bent backwards. She never once looked over at him, instead out at the sky that was her audience. “Ok ok… you never gave me a rating. That was at least a 9.2 performance, right?” Her legs toppled upward into a handstand before she flipped backwards into a split. She didn’t care she was on the edge, or that he was really smoking, but she did care about the ratings from the judge. So far her highest (in her mind) was 9.14. And she was very determined to beat that score.

To beat it she would have to do something … spectacular, something different, something dangerous! It was of course the only way to win, to push oneself to the edge and back.

Finally it was time, she took her position on the balance beam posing as the non existent music started solely in her mind. She had no intention of letting her now singular audience down. Her arms waved in the air beginning the dance. Her legs kicked in mid air like a ballerina, landing in first position. Her body twisted and twined around fluidically dancing as part of the routine. She spun around going into a full split and rising as if some invisible force lifted her in the air.

In her mind she was calculating things asking herself:

Are my feet pointed enough when they should be?
Am I poised?
Did I get high enough in my saltos?

Without being off kilter she leap with a perfect 180 split in the air landing with a satisfying smirk, though it quickly faded as she was concentrating hard on the routine in general. All those performances previously had been only practice, this was the performance of the lifetime. After all she had a really really real audience this time, there was no more farting around - not that she actually farted. She was going for the full monty, a perfect 10 this time.