She is blue. Hanging from the ceiling. Silent, but wanting. I am transfixed, unable to pull my gaze away. Static in my skull, a sharp familiar ring in my ear. Panic rises in my lungs as the heavy weight of my limbs arrives to my awareness. I am sinking, yet still, glued to the hot mattress, slick with sweat and fear. She stays staring intently. There are far more questions than facts. My soul on fire, body lying frozen in place. The last bit of oxygen escapes and my gasp for new air has vanished. Lips shut, my teeth clench tighter, filling up with silence along my heavy tongue, jamming the airways of my throat, pushing my chest down, eliminating hips, legs, feet, from my knowing. She stays hanging, staring, silent. Her eyes locked, while her body floats above softly. My eyes are acutely aware of their ability, frantic and thorough, searching for visual cues between dream and reality. Bookcase. Light. Closet. Window. Poster. Door. The ache for reality heightens as architecture is confirmed. But darkness begins to feel like presence, and now my room has more than just me and this woman. They are coming and she won’t let me go. There is an agreement between them, and I am the reason