“I have a thousand years to kill. I can do whatever I want!” He stamps his hoof as a stubborn child might stamp their foot. “And you’re supposed to be asleep! Leave me alone, can’t you see I gotta do this?!” The boar lets out a roar of aggravation, of exasperation, of white-hot rage, and charges at me.

What can I do? If I try to get up again I’ll just stumble, and the boar, who is bigger, faster, and stronger will just tower over me, then it will pounce and gore. I could crawl backward on my hands, dragging my sore legs with me, to the edge to throw myself over — if there was one — but the floor stretches out for miles. Now, suddenly, inexplicably, so do I. I do not know what is happening, but I am taking up more squares than I was before. I’m growing, or I’ve grown. Somehow, through all the pain and suffering, I’ve grown.

I won’t be more feast for the boar. I can do something.

I pound at the floor, cracking two more tiles. Success spurs me to punch and hammer through the pain in my good arm, punching even through the wringing feeling in my wrist and the splintering feeling that travels up my now-giant knuckles. The glass cracks like the surface of an icy river.

I fall for miles and miles. I feel everything. The air being sucked from my lungs, the flailing of my heavy limbs, the wind sharp and cold against my skin. Every muscle in my chest clenches tighter. I shut my eyes.

It won’t hurt, hitting the bottom. It won’t hurt. Aim for the water. Just like we did before.

No. It will not hurt. It will wake me up. That is all I need. One big burst, one shot of energy to jolt me.

Deep breath.

“I can’t …”

Cybelle.

The sound in my ears is like an explosion. The water is cold. My body, still hugged in a tight ball, descends farther and farther down before unravelling. I have plunged too far down. Now, the sharks come. I must hurry. Every tread of water comes with the sharp, blinding pains of exertion as I fight against the pressure. Every moment hurts. It is so painful, but it is the only way.

Fangs sink into my legs. I can only use my arms now. I paddle and paddle … the surface is so close, and my lungs are about to give out.

I’m sorry, Cybelle. Goodbye.