In my dreams, her face was filled with sorrow one moment, and in the next, it had turned into a sneer. The corners of her eyes appeared to tighten; her face became rounder and fuller. In place of her trademark leather jacket and T-shirt, I saw her in the silk pyjamas with ducks on them. Her hands were bound, and someone had a knife at her throat.
It dug into her skin, blood oozing from it, but the expression on her face never changed. Her hatred grew bolder as the knife dug deeper. She knew no pain; she had never experienced a loss that was bigger than the loss of her childhood. She was punishing me for it.
She was making promises she could never keep.
"Someday," she said, "I will kill you with my own hands. I will slice you open from your throat to the navel and then bathe in your blood," she promised. Her lips curled up and she laughed.
