Every nine minutes, another rude interruption to the comforts of my own personal hell... Snooze. ... he's very close now, not exactly touching me, but I can feel the pain... a knife? I can't tell, but the terror is enveloping me, surprisingly warm and languid, the stabbing, like a rush of forgiveness... thank you, for setting me free... no longer in control... ah yes, blissful dream... ...paralysis; so much fear, yet... pleasure, skimming the surface, swirling like sweet cream dripping slowly into strong, black coffee... fucking me, bludgeoning me, warm liquid oozing everywhere... his cum? my blood? cranberry sauce? Fuck. Gotta get up. Have to get the turkey dressed and in the oven by nine. Why in the hell did I volunteer to do Thanksgiving at my place this year? Christ, I don't even have enough chairs for everyone; just my little cheap oak table with two wobbly chairs. Where in the hell are these people going to sit? I've never cooked a turkey in my life. Do I even have enough silverware... ? Snooze. ... he's coddling my limp body; I think I'm dead, but you can't die in your dreams, can you? Guess I'm still alive... but I'm certainly dying, this I know because it's never felt so real, so comforting, so beautiful... Turkey's in the oven. Cooking in the brown paper bag, just like mom used to do. Perfect. Fucking perfect. Snooze.