The Meadow 69 wants to watch me suffer. Again, and again. I watch until there is no more hint of silver or blue; I stare until all I can see are white walls and white floors and the red blotches that remind me of fresh blood against snow. The dream will fade as the morning rays of sunlight flood my bedroom. It will take a while for the knot in my stomach to unravel, but I will never truly be rid of it—not while I remember. You could call it a nightmare. I wish it were.
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