The artist signs her name as Mary O’Net.
Strings attached to her arms and legs and head lead into a hole in the ceiling.
She moves in the most imprecise way, as if those strings control her.
Her eyes don’t seem to blink.
She doesn’t seem to breathe.
The most brilliant mime alive, she is.
But… is she alive?
I hold her wrist, and feel no pulse.
I hold a mirror to her face, and there is no breath.
She falls to the floor, completely limp.
“Who are you!” I shout at the ceiling.
Nobody responds.
I sit in silence.