The dreamworld was a strange place.
There was a band and she was the lead singer. It was a kingdom and she was the queen. It was an army and she was the general.
But most of all, it was an execution and all eyes were on her. That was where Emily was. Alone, on a stage that would serve as her death bed. With nothing but a sea of grass as spectators.
A noose was fastened around her neck by phantom hands, and try as she might to turn her head this way and that. Emily could not see the face of her executioner. She could only feel their cold breath against her neck, and their even colder hands, getting her into position. In the next moment it did not matter that she could not see them.
What mattered was that she could not breathe. She was hoisted higher, and higher. The noose tightening around her neck, the rope digging into the skin there. She felt the bones of her throat grinding against each other, cartilage snapping in half at the pressure.
