I wake. I gasp. I close my eyes - I’m fine, I’m fine. I'm still here. Breathing. That bucket was a dream. My death was a dream. I’m not dead. (Am I?) (...) (Aren't I?) Of course I’m not. I exhale. My feet fall to the edges of my bed. Slowly, I raise myself to stand. My fingers tremble by the edges of my leg: I curl my hand in. My nails catch on my skin. They’re sharp, pastel pink. Done for Prom Day today. The dream didn’t happen. How could it have? Prom Day hasn’t happened yet. I'm fine. (Didn’t it happen?) (It felt so…) (Real.) I tidy the bedsheets. Pull the corners over the bed’s edges, fluff up the pillows, pat away the sweat and the residue of a scream: my parents want it pretty. It wasn’t real. I only had a visceral dream, sunken into my brain as an anchor to a sea, as a stone angel’s crumbling visage, as a bird’s descent off Devil Cradle’s cliffs. That wasn’t real. No, of course not. My calendar says May 29th. I’ve got to prepare for Prom. After all, if there is anything I will be, it is Prom Queen. I’ve been chasing this moment since the beginning of time. Today is the finale. And I am nothing if not ready.