“N— no,” I choke. I try to pull at his giant fingers, but it’s like scratching at thick bands of rope. I gag. I can feel my body has frozen up. It’s as if I’m already unconscious, but I’m looking down on myself from high above, and watching my body thrash in my struggle for breath. He is choking me, here, and killing me, there …

“You’re a tough one,” growls a voice in my ear. “I’m gonna enjoy seein’ those big brown eyes of yours every day.”

As I slump to the floor, he kneels behind me, still squeezing. What do I do? I feel liquid running down my cheeks from my eyes and hope it isn’t blood. What do I do?

Cybelle. It is but a whisper, but it rings so familiar to me it seems to echo off the walls. “Help,” I struggle to say. But deep down, I know it is the whisper of someone who cannot help me.

The whisperer can only watch. Even before the whisper continues, I know what I need to do.

Cybelle — RUN.

Summoning what little strength I have, I concentrate, shunting it down my body. It hurts to move. But I have to. My right foot shoots out behind and drives hard into the man’s groin. He lets out a high-pitched cry as he crumples to the floor, holding himself in his hands.

“Ow! Fuck! Why do you keep kickin’ me in the crotch?!”

My only reply is with my other foot, driving right into the giant man’s face, knocking him to the floor. Sobbing, coughing, still unable to see, I stumble-run down the hallway for my life. I run blindly down the twists and turns, slipping several times and banging against the walls, down a long flight of stairs to where I see a door — a regular push-and-pull door with a knob.

With a last burst of speed, I launch myself forward and go right through it.

“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”

I flail upright in my bed. Thank God, it was only a nightmare. I collapse back down onto my pillow and give it a good, tight squeeze. Then I stop, remembering the feeling around my throat. I touch my neck. It even feels tender. I wonder if there’s a bruise. No, that would be ridiculous. It was just a dream. A vivid, bizarre, fucked-up dream.

“Cybelle!” I hear my name. “Breakfast!”

Downstairs in the dining room, everyone is already seated and digging in. I take the seat next to Bully in front of a short stack drowning in maple syrup and topped with a pat of butter. “Look what the cat dragged in,” my twin sisters snicker.

I ignore them, clapping my hands together. “Yum. Thanks, Mom.”

“Hey,” Dad chides me. “I helped with the bacon.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Itadakimasu!”