I am not awake; it follows then that I must be sleeping. Yet I am unsure of what lies within the realm of dream and what lies within the realm of reality. Chaos reigns in this moment and in our home.

Jahrae is near; I can feel her sensory presence. Close – she is with me, yet she is not here. My soul whispers her name to the winds; my body screams for her reassuring comfort. I can hear voices, voices talking and occasionally laughing. There are others here. Not Jahrae – these voices do not belong here. I am awake.

My eyes cannot see; it is as if thread has woven my eyelids to the flesh below my eyes. My mind does not wish to be consciously active. It is calling for shutdown, for survival mode, for taking me inward, in some vain attempt to avoid destruction. I resist.

Time… what time must it be? I roll over in another direction – did I mention I am on the sofa in the darkened living room? The time lies on the opposite wall – an old floor-standing clock, passed down through my family. My eyelids will open for me. They will. They do, open and closing and opening. My vision is blurry. I wipe sleep from my eyes and attempt to squint. It is… 2:20 am.

Someone approaches; methodical footsteps grow ominously louder. They stop. I pretend to be sleeping. They are checking on me. They. Those others. The intruders. The goon-team.

Is there a way out of here? No, I have already checked through our flat prior to sleep and check in my mind repeatedly, as if the next run through will produce a positive result. Every single room and the three exits – stairways downward, stairway upward – all guarded. There will be no escape. There is no going out a window, not unless I choose to end my own life. If I die, it will be at their hands, not my own.

I think of Cshrehyi, perhaps finally brother and sister shall meet. Of the same blood, even if in the meeting we no longer are creatures through which blood courses.

Why are they holding me here? If they wish to arrest me, then be done with it. If they wish to kill me, let them complete their unseemly task. I will stand strong. I will stand proud. I will die an equalist, and I will die for what I believe. A woman, equal to you who will do me harm. I am an activist, equal to you who will inflict injustice upon me. I am equal to those of you who believe yourselves to be my superior by virtue of being born with a penis. My vagina is equal to your penis, tough guys.

I am thirsty, and I need to sleep. I rise. My feet begin to move, carrying me away from my sanctuary. I no longer take my body or its movement for granted. My body is precious. I may never see it again.

I leave the provisional bed-station and head for our kitchen. It is still our kitchen, despite the occupying presence of Brellian’s goons. Four are setting at our breakfast bar. I ignore them, passing without comment, and head for the cooler.

The door swings outward in ready response to my touch. I look for… something with alcohol. I will find nothing sufficient in the main cooler. I close this door and open the cold storage. Ah, just what I need. I pull out a bottle of Arrhazon’s finest liqueur and set it on the preparation shelf. I reach for a glass, a sizeable and wide one. I grab the bottle once again and remove the seal. I pour five fingers worth of liquid, though I debate and discard the idea of pouring more. I replace the seal, and return the bottle to storage.

The cold storage door closed, I head back to my bed-station. No one spoke to me during this time, but I sense all of their eyes were upon me. They spoke not to each other whilst I was in the kitchen. Now that I am back to my temporary sanctuary, they talk again. It is more urgent now, less frivolous. They make their goon-plans.

I could care less about them, excepting they are in my home.

Part of me wishes to head over to and play the piano, but I am no longer of a state to play competently. My refreshment is down two fingers. I did not put ice in the glass. I can feel the numbing liquid carrying out its intended duty, raw and powerful. I must sleep, for sleep is my refuge, sleep will give me strength to face the intruders as they carry out their next course of action.

There is only one finger of liquid left in the glass. I sense some unseen spirit stands by me ready to sew my eyelids shut as before; I feel her gentle touch upon my shoulder, and I hear her voice call to me – call to me in a sure and steady voice that sounds like Jahrae – “it is ok to sleep now, llhaesa.”

I lift the glass to my mouth one more time, I tip the base upward, the remaining liquid rushing downward, sluicing through my open and anticipating mouth, but not bothering to stop. It continues down my throat. The last drop leaves its temporary container behind and chases after its like droplets, on its way to become part of me.

I set the glass down. I look over to the floor-standing clock through fading eyes. It is 3:15. Sweet dreams, Jahrae. And all of my love to you!