I duck back under the table. The tablecloth moves, exposing me, but somehow no one spots me underneath and comes to collect my face. I feel like I’m in full view of the demonic creatures running around, but for whatever reason they don’t see me. Perhaps they are too engrossed in catching the people running for their lives to look down here. I can see the bride — my sister? She looks so familiar now — and her new husband hiding under another table nearby. She turns and sees me. The bride scurries past the thundering feet to my table and pulls the tablecloth down behind her. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I … it’s your wedding,” I reply. I can hear the tears in my own voice.

“No, it isn’t! Cybelle, you’ve turned this into a nightmare!”

“How is this my fault?! I didn’t …” I’m crying now. “I didn’t mean to —”

“No, Cybelle. Shut up and listen to me. You’re HAVING a nightmare. You need to wake up!”

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

Someone screams as a fireball hurtles past the table. The blast shakes the room, sending guests screaming in all new directions. I can feel the heat of another fireball as it streaks above and hear the tinny, anime-like sound effect of something catching fire.

“Come on!”

The bride grabs my wrist and runs out from under the table. “No!” I say, scared out of my wits. But she’s always been stronger than me. She pulls hard and runs.

We’re running through a forest. There’s mist and green everywhere. A peaceful, beautiful scene, incongruent to our fleeing in terror from whatever just happened. Now I really don’t understand what’s going on. “You owe me some answers,” the bride says without losing her stride. “Who are you?”

I’m someone who’s just been to the stupidest party she’s ever been to. But I can’t say that to my own sister. Wait. No. Not my sister. I close my eyes and let her pull me through the trees. I think. I think hard. I’ve been asked this question before.

Who am I?

I open my eyes. “I’m …”

Silence. Darkness.

“Bully?”

She’s gone. So is the forest. So is the wedding hall. I’m in bed, now. I creep out of the bed, out of the dark room, down a flight of stairs to a dark hallway. There is a small light — a night light — plugged into the wall, here. I think I need to go to the washroom. Yeah, that’s what I’m doing here.

A light clicks on. There’s blood all over me, soaking into my robe. My period has started. Terrific.

I’ve just about cleaned up my legs when I hear a squeaking noise just outside the washroom door, like rubber wheels dragging on a rough surface. I stick my head out. There’s a little boy standing there, maybe about two or three years old, with a little red wagon behind him. He’s looking right up at me as if he expected me to open the door. Maybe he’s just waiting for the washroom. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “Do you need to go?”