All my life, I have suffered from recurring nightmares. Some dreams become dark prophecies to the believer, or unfortunate coincidences to the skeptic. As always, I exist in between, finding that it has been a combination of both.
Looking to avoid one nightmare in particular, I stay wide awake past the quiet hours. I listen closely for noises that indicate someone is attempting to break into my home. Because in those dreams, I never get out unscathed. In fact, I do not get out at all. I am broken by rape and tight fists.
I refuse to be owned by any man or experience. If I am not my own yet, then I do not know whose I am, or what can happen when I cannot be claimed. I suppose I am much like an unfashionable coat, forgotten in the attic. One day I will be found, and life would not have missed a beat; the world would have continued its spin.
The Corpse has asked that we be friends, like two peas in a frying pan. Always feeling the heat of a fire we started. Now I say nothing. I watch him greet me with an aggressive waving of hands, and I say nothing. I am a good and eager student of all men, of angry ants, of make-believe gods, of dusty books.