I was walking through a beautiful garden. It was filled with blood red roses. I was walking on a path throuh the garden, which ended at an old, rusty gate. A man in black stood at the gate. He was holding a silver hand gun. It was pointed at me.
"You don't want to do that," my shaky voice said.
He just stood there. Motionless.
Suddenly he dropped the gun. He reached in his pocket and fished out a lighter and a single cigarette.
What is going on?
The man lit the cigarette, ever so slowly. He began smoking it, puffing white smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
"You know, Arima," he began in a raspy voice. "You've been a naughty girl. You must be punished."
The man reached down for the gun.
Run, I thought.
I turned around and bolted. I could hear the man running behind me. He was getting closer. And closer.
I stopped. There was no use. There was no way I was going to get out alive. I turned around slowly. There he stood. Three feet away holding the gun to my head.
"I know you've been in pain, Arima," he growled. He lifted one hand off of the gun and gestured to the scars on my wrist. "I thought by doing this you would consider it a favor. You're ungrateful."
I woke with a start. I was drenched in sweat, my heart beating quickly, trying to catch my breath.
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