Sleep was her drug, her anesthetic. Sometimes dreams slipped in, at times returning her to better days when her heart beat with delight, when he loved her and she loved him and their souls rose from their distant bodies and met secretly above the chaos—their thoughts woven in a constant embrace. She was every word that flowed through his fingers and the nectar that dripped from his pen. She lapped the juices he prepared for her and left the paper dry, and to him she wrote songs of the sweet blood that he nourished within her veins. They fed each other and dined insatiably until their eyes met in a swift climactic and terrifying moment that made them flee in fear of a single touch. Their desire would have consumed the both of them whole.
The relief of her unconsciousness was short and always preceded a painful awakening to a constricted airway and knife handles protruding from her chest. Every bone ached and cried for sleep to reclaim her. But more often than not, sleep evaded her, maliciously exposing her to an unending hell of a tortured mind left to the cruel devices of a long, dark night.