Manipulation Room victim no. 73228
Name: Blake Ezekiel 
Age: 64-year-old
Occupation: School Teacher 
Family Member: 29-year-old son, Rafferty 
Description: Hydrofluoric Acid thrown at the face, 5 ml swallowed. Caused 79% body burns and serious organ damage. 

............................................

Weeks passed, they felt like days. Time had begun to dissolve into itself, as shapeless as the rain. Maybe this was because I was finally enjoying life again. Summer comes fast, as music turned up to full volume. The sky blazes blue and the sun is a celebration of yellow, free and bright. The trees rise to the occasion, donning their best verdant hues, and everywhere are the flowers, the scattered rainbow that they are. I mainly keep to myself, spending all of my time with my face either stuck in a book or talking to Kierra or Ezra. I've tried hard to avoid Credence and Maddox, and have succeeded so far.

Jaxon came and went, but Kierra and I were as close as ever. I knew I was wrong to worry. It would take more than a boy to tear us apart. Jaxon and Ezra also became close, which made me happy for some reason. I'd walk down the corridor and see them joking and laughing together and it filled me with a weird sort of joy. I spent almost all of my free periods with Ezra, in the place that was now ours. We did all sorts of different things, all of them weird and wonderful. 

One the first day he showed me the music he often listened to. It was music with no words, but it somehow told a story. I even began to tear up at one of the songs, which was slightly embarrassing till he put up his hand and wiped the tear away. It was a magical moment that was overshadowed by how embarrassed I felt. He made me feel better by playing a song about a duck meeting a cat, it was hilarious and soon I'd forgotten that there were ever tears in my eyes. 

On the second day he taught me how to sketch and even ripped a page out of the back of his sketchbook for me to practise on. I drew a hilariously rubbish portrait of him and he pretended to be offended before holding my hand and showing me how to draw properly. I ended up drawing an okay-ish picture of a cat and a duck. 

One the third day and the fourth day I brought in books to show him, and flicked to all of my favourite parts of the books, allowing him to read them. I explained each plot thoroughly, telling him about my favourite characters. He made jokes and silly references, which made me laugh, and soon we were too busy joking to even think about literature. 

On the fifth day I helped him with his classwork, which he struggled to take seriously. My bossy nature kicked in and soon enough, he caved in. I helped him with his homework, even though he hadn't asked me to, and he was completely up to date by the end of that free period. He brought me my favourite chocolate bar (that I'd told him on day three) at the end of the day, to say thank you and we split it in half, eating it on the way home. 

On day six we did nothing but talk. Talk about anything and everything. I'd found out by the end of it that he got his blue eyes from his father; he has a serious fear of woodlice and the dark; he used to be able to fit his whole fist in his mouth; he met Jaxon when they fought over the sandpit in year 2; his mum makes the best chicken soup and he's not gay. (sorry, Credence) I came incredibly close to telling him about my father before deciding that he didn't need to know and keeping it to myself. 

On the seventh day I couldn't come because Echo had a serious fever and Mum wanted me home to look after her. A half hour into elder-sister baby-sitting and he came knocking at the door with his Mum's chicken soup. He didn't stay for long but Echo and I both agreed that the chicken soup was culinary genius. 

And now it was a new week. A new week, a new day, a new free period spent with Ezra. Pretty much the highlight of my days. I walked down the field till I reached our secret spot, looking left and right to make sure no one else was watching. I pulled back the ivy and saw Ezra in his usual spot, on the horizontal tree trunk. He was so engrossed in his sketching that he didn't notice me entering. 

"Hey, stranger." I smiled, sitting next to him on the branch. He looked up and his whole face lit up, "Lyric! Hi." 
"Hey, whatcha drawing there?" He showed me an almost finished sketch of Jaxon and Kierra and it was absolutely amazing. It looked so real, I was awe-struck. "Jax asked if I could draw it for him...he's doing something for Kierra." He explained, placing the sketch on his lap and shading the wisps of Kierra's curly hair that he had got spot on. His talent was so undeniable, I was in pure shock at how one person could be so good. "That...that is amazing." I responded finally, shaking my head. "How are you so talented?" 
He smiled at me, "Thanks...you're not so bad yourself." 

I lifted an eyebrow, "Really? I'm awful." I laughed. He pulled the sketch of the cat and the duck from the back of his sketchbook and showed it to me, "Not true! This is the start of something." He grinned. I took the picture from him and stared at it, "You kept this?" 
"Why wouldn't I?" 

When I had pulled my book from my bag and explained the full plot to Ezra, I began to read, hunched comfortably on my side of the trunk. He leant over his sketchbook and pulled out his phone, scrolling through it absent-mindedly. "Oh my God." He gasped, holding his screen out to face me. It made me happy that he didn't need to be asked to show me, he just did. I craned my neck forward so that I could see his phone screen. It was a picture of Raven Shiloh, an absolute icon. She's an author and activist against the Manipulation Room. I even have a poster of her on my wall, looking all heroic and headstrong as she holds up a sign reading 'Multiply not manipulate!' Underneath the photo was a large chunk of text, I scanned it quickly.

Author of 'The Manipulation Room' and anti-manipulation-room activist, Raven Hilary Shiloh has been killed in a brutal attack carried out during a march yesterday in the planet's central roads. She was leading the march, another campaign against the Manipulation Room, when an unnamed criminal was said to have stabbed her three times in the chest, and twice in the back. She bled out on the roads and the rest of the crowd fled from fear. When questioned whether his army had anything to do with it, President Thanatos responded with this statement.
"I understand that many people are increasingly upset about the murder of Miss Shiloh, as am I. I can sincerely say that my army had nothing to do with the murder, but my sincere condolences to her family and friends. That is all I am willing to say at present, thank you." 

I felt a sting in my heart, a sharp, painful one. I had idolized Raven Shiloh, more than anyone. If she couldn't save us then no one could. I heard Ezra scoff and I looked up to see him rolling his eyes, "It was obviously him." 
I nodded slowly, "Raven was so close to diminishing the Manipulation Room. He didn't want that so he ordered her to be killed." It made such perfect sense, it had to be him. A crowd is only a crowd without a leader. With no one to guide them, they all fled. Now we were back at square one. I groaned, "Will we never be saved?"

He glanced at me solemnly, leaning back against the wall. "She was such a great person...so tough and strong-minded." 
I nodded, "She really was. I even had a poster of her on my wall..." 
He looked up at me and grinned, "Multiply not manipulate?" He asked. I opened my mouth wide with shock, "How did you know?" 
He chuckled, "I have the same poster." He had the same poster. He had the same poster! 

He put his phone away and was soon entranced in his drawing once more. He was clearly an artist. He even moved like an artist, his eyes taking in more details than the average person, his limbs almost dancing even when he walked. In hands were always stained with granite, from when he'd pressed his fingers into his drawings to shade them. There was constantly a pencil balancing on the back of his ear, slightly hidden by his tousled brown hair. I couldn't see what he was drawing, as his sketchbook was expertly balanced on knees. I noticed that when he concentrated hard, his tongue stuck out of his mouth. It's a habit my father had too; whenever he did his work, the tip of his tongue would teeter on his lower lip. 

I reached for the book on my lap and flicked to the dog-eared page. "What magical land are you being transported to today?" I heard Ezra ask. I looked up and saw him glancing at my book, three-quarters of his attention still on his sketching book as his thick pencil trailed along the page, a dash here, a swirl there. "A land...without the Manipulation Room." I replied.
"Does such a land exist?" 
I smiled faintly, "It's called the future." 
He looked up from his sketchbook and grinned at me, "You're amazing, you know that?" 
I beamed, gratefully, feeling my cheeks turn red as I fiddled with the corner of the page. 

We worked in a silence that was somewhat comforting. Ezra sketching a drawing I couldn't quite see from where I was sitting, me reading. The book had a vice-like grip on my mind, it's twisted reality began to distort my own, challenging the once mundane facts of my existence, bringing me into a new turbulent realm where even my sense of self was up for grabs. It was like I was dreaming, but instead of my mind piecing together the fragments of my dream, the book was doing it for me. 

I saw Ezra out of the corner of my eye and found that nine times out of ten, he was looking up at me, a steady glance. I raised an eyebrow at him and he looked away, smirking. His cerulean eyes were so different in moments like these, more soft than I knew eyes could be. The shy, reserved Ezra is gone and instead it is the eyes of one who loves deeply. If it were anyone else I would drop my gaze, but with him I'm drawn in closer, always wanting more. After what felt like two minutes but had really been an hour, I looked at my watch and found that my next lesson started in five minutes. I inwardly groaned, "Ugh, I have my next lesson in five minutes." 

He dropped his sketchbook onto the trunk, face-down and flashed me a disappointed look. "Ah, it's okay. See you tomorrow, then?" 
I nodded, "Yep! Hey, what did you draw today?" 
He glanced at his sketchbook before looking back at me and shrugging, "Just testing...stuff. New skills and all." He rubbed the back of his neck (a gesture he often did when he was embarrassed.) I smirked at him, "Cool, show me then." 
He looked at me and shook his head, "Um, maybe some other time...it's not that good." 

I could see that he was incredibly embarrassed, his cheeks had a lovely red tint to them. In the weeks that we had become closer, I found that I loved teasing him. Joking around and making him act like this, it was laughable, and a new side to him that I quite liked to explore. In one quick motion, I picked the sketchbook up from where he had placed it and held it out of his reach. He reached out for it, "Lyric, Lyric, stop!" He was chuckling as he reached out for it again. I stood up and held it to my chest, laughing myself silly. He stood up too, and flung his arms around me, lifting me in the air. "Give it back!" He laughed, holding his arms around my waist as he swung me around in circles. I squealed, shaking my head, "No!" 

I jumped out off his arms and held the sketchbook up so that I could look at it. He didn't run to stop me this time, he just paused, shuffling awkwardly on the spot. But the drawing...it was me. It was lovely, and looked so incredibly real that I would've been fooled that it was a photograph. Each stroke and shade was neat and perfect. It explained why he had looked at me so often, I was unknowingly modelling for him. Each perfection had been enhanced, each imperfection had been made to look perfect. It was a gorgeous drawing, and it had stolen the air from me. 

I bit my lip, eyes everywhere but on Ezra. Then he moved closer with those ocean eyes that look so deeply into my own, "I think you're beautiful." His breathing became softer, the pensive look melting into a smile as soft as the morning light. My body squirms just a little as my muscles relax. There is something about that gaze of his that I'll never find in another person, as if in that moment our souls had made a bridge.