A page is torn from the book, the ink still fresh from a few hours prior: Dzivah has been writing in her sleep, remarkably legibly, and is anxious upon waking to find these words. She tucks the page into a binding on her staff with the purpose of burning it later.

Why? Why do you persist? You see nothing and yet see everything. Even with eyes given away, gifted to Hethiss, I cannot escape your sightless gaze.

First the fire, and then – no! The convulsions, the stupor, the self-control perishing in a languid, slow death. I still smell the smoke mixed in with the blood. I recall the way my skin smelled when I fled. I will never get the smell out. THE SMELL!

And now? Inside. Going deeper. Drawing circles with your fingers and I am too late to spy the why – the why?! You trap me with voodoo; beguile me with your own manner of trickery. Invoke my own memories. You see nothing and now see into my very head. Every painful thought. Father. Sister. Everything that makes Dzivah what she is. When I return from irreality you are unapologetic. Your joy is in watching me squirm.

Inside. All lost. The sanctity of my mind is where I hid as a child. Now this sanctum is breached, too; there is no solid space to lean on or shelter under. You’d take them all from me. Rape my body! Flesh is a useless prison! But my mind…please, no…

The stupidest thing I have ever done was give you my blood.

In order to free myself from you,

I must

drain it all

out,

every

last

drop