She lay on her back, in a different time, in a different place. She was naked, yet she felt no shame. Eyes were upon her, yet she did not feel them. Voices spoke to her, but she did not hear them. For before her eyes, there was only a flash of light, her life flashing before her, in her ears only the sounds of those who cared for her. And yet, amid these images of love, the one emotion she could not escape was fear. Every thought, feeling, emotion or memory in her mind was under siege by this fear. The physical form of her fear was a cold, sharp, cruel metal blade pressed softly against her womanhood. Its icy touch sent a shiver up her spine, feeding her fear, and its pressure against the opening of the gates of heaven caused a pang deep within her. It was not a pang of desire, it was not the feeling that she felt when her lover entered her and made love to her, no, this was cold, unadulterated dread. It was as though it was a sick parody of that which embodied all of the love and lust of a man. There was no love here. There was, as a twisted consolation prize, lust, but it was not a lust for pleasure; it was a lust for pain. Her pain. Somewhere, a woman screamed. Flesh tore. Her womanhood first gave way, then stretched, then in much the way her mind was defeated by her fear, her body lost its fight with the tempered intruder. Another flash of light appeared before her eyes, but no memories came with this one. Thought was impossible at this point, the flash was merely her pain and her fear having reached such an intensity they could not help but permeate her vision. Her eyes closed, but the cruel light remained. It was only inside of her mind, yet it burned her eyes. It burned her entire body. The woman screamed again, she would not stop. She wished she could silence this woman, she wished she could silence these cries of horror, but she could not. As her lungs burned, she realized the woman was her. And yet, though it was her that was screaming, there was still nothing that she could do. A horrible tension gripped her, and then released with the tearing of more flesh. The blood flowed. It was as though the blade was mocking her woman's flow, but where that was the essence of life created, this marked the destruction of life. With the flood flowed her life and where the blood drained, fire took its place. Fire stretched from between her legs up to her heart, where her pulse grew erratic. The blade that was so cold before was now the source of the fire. Blinding pain burned her with light in her eyes, and the cacophony of the screams of a woman so close and yet so distant nearly shattered her ears. Tearing, horrible tearing, ripping, shredding, slicing, a chef with a cutlet could not do better. Finally the intruder reached its hilt, the advance stopped. The fire burned. Quarter turn. The fire turned into a conflagration, it exploded from below and tore through her entire body, it was the devil's parody of an orgasm. The blood exceeded that of her woman's flow, for now it started to fill her, it could not drain fast enough. The light stopped, drowned by the deluge of blood. Blackness took its place, and the woman stopped screaming. Even the pain seemed to be drowned by the blood, for it too weakened. That is, her awareness of the pain weakened, but as the fire and the light had consumed all that she was aware of save for the pain, so when the pain diminished, there was nothing to take its place. Nothing, save for numb silence. Half turn. Silence. Utter silence. The light was dead, the woman had stopped screaming. Even the pain was gone. The blood trickled silently as the intruder made its retreat. Perhaps even the intruder was drowning in the blood. Her back arched as the vile blade made its exit, her entire body tensed as if life was returning. But it was a futile effort, it was merely the last bit of life leaving her. The silence returned, the intruder was no more. Sleep.