She tucked her knees beneath her, nursing her glass - lets be honest - goblet of wine in both hands as she took a shaky sip. Her eyes were red-rimmed and drooping, but her mind was resolutely awake. Mary Ellen, for that is who she still thought herself to be despite her pleas to Tommy, had stayed well past banker's hours and drove through the side streets and back alleyways, meandering through town mimicking the patterns of her frazzled thoughts.

As she drove, she kept thinking about her behavior above all else. This was a man in trouble. This was a friend whom she had known her whole life. Someone who was so distraught by her childhood that he took the blame into himself and carried it all these years, like a sputtering torch with a black flame. She had treated him so cruelly. So childishly. It had taken everything for him to share this with someone. That someone had been her and she had screamed at him. The thought of her screeching that alien name to him made her wince. She called the forwarding service as soon as she got in.

She hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten. She felt contaminated. Unhinged. Unkempt. The knot on her temple had bruised to a sickly yellow. She lifted a hand to her hair, ignoring the wobbling of the delicate crystal as she smoothed back her once silky hair into a greasy blob. Her hand found its way home as she took another uneasy sip. Unsatisfied, she took a gulp. She expected the phone call any minute now. Dr. Allman was always prompt.

She was still unsure of what to say.

The phone rang shrilly cutting through the thick silence of the ornately furnished apartment startling her. The wine sloshed from the glass and onto the pristine white sofa. Her friend Margery, a mother of two, had once commented on the lack of feasibility inherent in a white couch. It would seem that she was correct. Mary took an indecisive moment to wave her hands ineffectively between the stain and the phone before deciding on the phone.

"Hello?" She asked, hesitantly the words scraping against the gravel of her throat.

"Well, good evening my dear. I am glad to note you haven't yet retired." He sounded calm, but after knowing him for twenty years she knew that concern lied beneath. It was a technique that he had taught her for dealing with patients on the edge of hysteria. Calmness was contagious. It's seemed that tonight, however, someone had slipped her the antidote.

"Good Evening, Dr. Allman." She said sullenly.

"My dear, you haven't called me that since you received your first degree. Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh Phil. I don't know. It's a bit complicated." She took a gulp from her empty glass before glaring at it and tried to come up with a reasonable explanation to the questions that were sure to come.

"Would this complication have anything to do with your little friend?"

"A bit. I'm just not sure how stable he is." She said, as honestly as she could manage.

"From what you told me he seems to be dealing with some issues. Have you seen him since you spoke to him?"

"He came in to the office yesterday." "Was he angry? Or aggressive? He hasn't hurt you has he?" His veneer cracked slightly, showing the genuine fatherly concern she was familiar with.

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. He told me some... things. He had a lot of guilt for what happened to my mom. I reacted so badly. I just didn't trust myself to see my patients today. He came to me for help and I acted like a child." She covered the exposed portion of her face with her hand, grimacing as if the words were physically painful.

"What sort of guilt could he have about your mother?" He asked clinically. She wondered if he had his writing pad on his lap.

"He seems to think that he caused their deaths. Set it in motion. I think it might have something to do with the death of his own family. A week after I was admitted his entire family died."

"Yes, he told me as much on the phone." He replied. But no more. Mary Ellen had hoped that he would be more forthcoming with advice, or a story from the glory days of psychiatry. She could almost hear the cogs working through the line. She remained silent.

"Sometimes the mind can manipulate things so that the fabrication can seem as real as the truth. I had a similar case some years ago. Far before your time, in the glory days of our art." Phillip Allman cleared his throat. There we go, she thought.

"A boy, perhaps around young Tommy's age, whose family had perished when he was just a child. In a fire, no less. A terrible accident. It took a great toll on him, though he carried the burden well for many years. Not until he was older, did the symptoms manifest themselves. He didn't have many friends, but those who knew him spoke very highly of him. Said he was quiet, perhaps distracted, but a nice fellow. Wouldn't have expected him to be unstable.

It was a particularly interesting case. One that I still think of often. What was so interesting about it was the mechanism he used to focus all of this anger and sadness. All of his troubles and torments he was able to fixate in one place. In an object. He was convinced that this thing was manipulating the circumstances around him. Controlling them to make him suffer."

The only sound was Mary's harsh breathing. Her hand found its way to cover the offending noise. Oblivious to this, the good doctor plowed on.

"A terrible business. After our second session he took his own life. I have wondered many times if I could have helped him more. Saw through what he was telling me, the illusion he had created, to the damaged young man beneath. He had been drinking heavily. His apartment was a mess. There were stacks of late notices and unpaid bills, I'm ashamed to say that mine were among them.

It seemed that he was more depressed and troubled than he let on. A terrible business indeed. The thing that has stayed with me all these years, was how truly and confidently he believed in this object. So much so that he had physically transformed it in his own mind."

With each sentence her doubts mounted, but the conclusion became clearer. She no longer doubted Tommy. Her doubts were firmly centered on everything else that she knew to be true. Her heart had plummeted to her toes and was sending a resounding beat through her body causing it to thrum with each thump. She licked her lips and tried to force words passed the dryness in her throat.

"What was the object?" She asked hoarsely. "So you see, simple things can manifest themselves so strongly in one's mind. I hope that you referred the boy to someone. Did - "

"Phil, what was the object?" She asked frantically, though she already knew the answer. "A stone my dear. He always called it that. Though sometimes he referred to it as "she"." He said as if this bit of information didn't concern him in the slightest.

"Did you ever see it?" She asked, near to the point of hysteria.

"My dear, I think you are missing the point of-"

"Did he show it to you?" She asked insistently, closing her eyes in frustration.

"Yes. Well, he thought he did. I fear that may have been what unraveled him. You see, what he described as a beautiful blue stone was in fact a top. A simple child's toy."

Her breath caught in her throat as she turned once and then again, looking for someone to whom she could shout this revelation. She had done it before. Tommy wasn't crazy. There was only one man on the planet that wanted to hear this, needed to hear this. She could only hope that she wasn't too late.

"Goodbye, Phil." She mumbled before disconnecting, not bothering to wait for a response. She grabbed her coat and purse before slamming the door behind her. She pressed the button impatiently. She stepped forward, but caught herself at the last second. The elevator had dinged open to an empty chamber. As she looked down the cables into the abyss that emptied stories below her she mumbled under her breath, "Nice try, bitch. I'm coming for you."