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abounded, taking away the focus on talent that it used to pride itself on.
    Right from the start it was obvious that the producers, or writers, or whoever was in charge of these things, were setting up a grand face-off between a country singer by the name of Bert Dunlop and a pretty blonde woman named Beatrice Holt, whose husband was a billionaire technology tycoon, of all things.
    It sounded like the set-up for a joke.  Mr. Holt probably owned the TV show.  I was ready to zone out completely but, when they finally moved past the awful filler-auditions and arrived at the real music, Bert was good and Beatrice performed a cover of The Verve’s ‘The Drugs Don’t work’ with a voice that could tear your heart in half or send it shooting into the sky like a firework.
    I liked it before, but this was the first time I’d ever felt like the song was all about me.  It wasn’t easy to listen to.
    All the marginally-good television in the world couldn’t have delayed the inevitable though, and eventually I dragged myself upstairs as if there was an electric chair where my bed was.  It was soft and warm, but it offered no comfort.
    I sat on my bed with my back against the walls, right in the corner, and hugged my legs as I looked out at the room I grew up in, turned alien by the soft illumination of the night light and the crowded boxes stacked against one wall, all my possessions that my family had packed up from mine and Nick’s house.
    Every sound held ominous potential, and as the hours wore on, I felt myself beginning to lose another round with the Sandman.  Sounds mixed with dreamlike hallucinations and that gust of wind turned into a scream, the branches of a tree being blown around against the roof becoming somebody trying to get into the house.
    I pinched myself, I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, I made myself sit as bolt upright as I could.  It was no use, there was no escape…
    *****
    My internal monologue is no voice of reason, it is hysterical, it has been driven insane.  And it’s catching.
    Run!  Run!  RUN!  He’s coming!
    It screams at me, and I force my legs to listen to the shrieking voice in my head and nothing else.  I must not listen to the sounds of cracking twigs and thudding footsteps behind me, or I might curl up and die.  Or worse, he might catch me again.
    The voice is crazy, but it has only one goal, and that is for me to live.  I don’t have any better ideas, so I do what it says.
    The trees seem to crowd together in every direction I try to run, their branches scratch me until I feel like my skin has been taken off, but I’m still running.  Ahead of me I see a gap, with some bright light beyond, and I stumble towards it with the last of my strength.
    I’m almost there when a grip like a bear trap bites my ankle and I slam into the ground hard enough to knock all the breath out of me.  I gasp at the receding light as I am dragged back into the dark forest, my fingernails tearing off as I try to find something to cling to.
    There is nothing. I am not strong enough.  The monster with no face twists my head until I hear creaking sounds coming from my neck and shooting pains…
    *****
    “Wake up! Wake up!”
    I blinked, and the scene dissolved and reformed in front of me.  My mom was holding my shoulders and shaking me.  It took me a moment to realize it was me who was screaming.
    With great effort, I gulped and focused on my mom.  My neck was in agony. I must have fallen asleep sitting up.  My pajamas were drenched in sweat, rivers of it were pouring down my face, and I was panting like I’d been through the most intense workout of my life.
    My mom pulled me into a hug and rocked back and forth as if I was a baby.  I had no energy to fight the unrighteous indignation, it was all I could do to try and breathe as I stared over her shoulder at the feet of my sister and father.
    I squeezed my eyes shut against the world and cried as my mom shushed me and stroked my