Harpy Hunt

Snapped and torn branches in the trees; deep, sweeping gouges in the dirt trail and the occasional ditch indentation where a large animal had been dropped onto the ground. Medusa saw all of these, as the path left behind by her prey. She had proficient skill in hunting, but she needed none to track this beast, it had ploughed down the path like a drunken bear, leaving all manner of mess in its wake. So she could maintain a good distance between them, needing only to glance at the damage around her to remain on its tail.
Her target was a harpy. Flying creatures were often harder to track, but the reason this one was so easy to chase was because it was carrying a large animal in its claws; and the reason Medusa had chosen to chase this particular harpy was because that large animal was her horse.
So, she had to chase on foot, each step splaying her vivid, red hair behind in a wild, unkempt swarm about her head. Despite the bow and quiver strung over her shoulder; the xiphos, a short sword, at her belt & the bulk of her leather armour, she moved freely and swiftly. She would have looked graceful, all but for the cruel scowl on her face. For, she’d been bathing in a small lake that morning, when three harpies had tried to attack her. Her bow, as always, was close at hand so she made short work of two of them, but the third had snagged her horse. Not only did that leave her with little choice but to quickly dress and chase after it, but since the dead harpies had fallen into the pond and bloodied her bathwater, Medusa felt even dirtier than she had before the bath. She was having a bad day.
Medusa stopped a moment and took a knee by the disturbed ground. There was a splattering of blood on the dirt. She ran her fingers through it and felt that it was still wet and warm, she knew that she was getting close. She stood and continued to jog down the trail, which was leading to a small farming town, surrounded by large, ploughed fields and paddocks scattered with animals. At first, Medusa thought that the harpy would give the place a wide berth, away somewhere that it could feed in peace; yet, the trail of shredded dirt and wild splatters of blood lead her straight into the town. As she entered the place, she saw a group of people crowded in the middle of the road, some of them crying. The trail of blood lead right to them, so she slowed her pace to walk amongst them.
The buildings were simple, pale stone; the road was dirt and the people were tanned with toned muscles, Medusa walked into the very middle them, pushing past townsfolk to see what had gathered the crowd. When she reached the centre of the crowd, the sight made her sneer. Although she knew it unlikely, she had hoped that she could salvage the horse; but on the blood-dampened ground in front of her lay the shredded remains of her steed. It was covered in scratches and its stomach was torn open and ravaged, intestines spilled on the ground. It looked as though the horse was missing its liver and a kidney, and there was a mess of bile and loose strands of its shredded innards spilled on the dirt. Most disturbing of all, the horse was still, slowly, breathing. Medusa frowned with disgust. She drew her xiphos sword and in one swift motion that made the people gasp, she put the poor beast out of its misery. Withdrawing the blade, she turned to the crowd
     “Where did it go? Where’s the wretched fowl?!” she sneered through gritted teeth. The people looked too shocked and scared to answer, all of them backing away from the armed huntress.
     “The nest, ma’m,” said one weary farmer in a sweat-soaked tunic, he sounded worn out. “please, stay your blade.”
Slowly and carefully, Medusa wiped her blade on the unsullied flank of her horse’s corpse and returned the xiphos to her hip. She tried her hardest to look calm.
     “I am Medusa the Gorgon. This was my horse, and I wish nothing more than to gut the fiend responsible for its death. Point me towards their nest, and I will slay them.”
     “I suggest you don’t. There are too many of them,” said a tall man, stepping forward. The man wore a chlamys, a loose cloak that hung from his shoulder, which he pulled it aside to show deep, claw-marks down his chest and leg which were still healing. “We tried to stop them, twelve of the strongest men of Metaxas went to fight. Only I and Anaxilaus survived.”
     “You are merely men,” said Medusa. “Farmers and mothers, all of you; but, I am a huntress. I killed two of these creatures this morning, I am sure that I can do away with these.”
“You are here to save them?” asked one woman, her white stolla - a draping dress - was torn and her face was streaked with tears. “Please, my daughter was taken. Can you help her?”
     “Your child?” asked Medusa, confused.
     “Yes, my Isias,” said the woman, crying, “Can you bring her back?”
     “They took my son,” said another woman, “Eudorus.”
     “My daughter Salpe.” said another. “and my son, Polybius.”
More of them stepped forward, offering more names and pleas for help. Medusa quickly founded herself surrounded by a swarm of bereaved parents, she stepped back.
     “Wait... wait!” she yelled, holding up both hands. “What you ask is impossible. Why would any of you even think that your children are still alive?! They can’t come back.”
     “No, I’ve seen them,” said the scarred man, with sincerity “They’re held captive within the canyons. Please, can you save our children? Can you save my daughter, Orianthe?”
     “Why would they steal your children and leave your cows?” asked Medusa, more out of rhetorical disbelief than inquisition. “Why would they kill nine of you and spare the children?”
     “They’re beasts of Hades,” said one man, “they enjoy our suffering.”
     “No...” muttered Medusa, frowning in thought. “It doesn’t make sense.”
     “Please, please,” cried the mother with the torn dress. “Can’t you help us?”
Medusa frowned. If their words were more than mere false hope, and their children were truly alive, then this hunt would not be so easy. The Gorgon didn’t like dealing with children. Her life was one of danger, and when children became involved, they would too often die. They are always so fragile, better suited to be wrapped in wool and left at home than let out into the world. She sighed heavily.
     “I can’t promise you anything...” said Medusa.
     “I’ll give you anything to have her back,” pleaded the mother again.
     “I said I can’t promise anything!” Medusa repeated, raising her voice. She took a breath and gritted her teeth again. “But... if your children are alive. Then I will keep them that way.”
     “Oh, thank the gods,” said the woman. She moved to hug the Gorgon, but Medusa held her shoulder and kept her at arms length, although the woman still bowed her head in praise.
     “For my trouble, I want a new horse,” Medusa said to the crowd, coldly.
     “If you return my son, I’ll give you my best,” said one of the farmers. So, it was settled, Medusa the Gorgon was going hunting for harpies.

†

Medusa insisted upon going alone. Some of the men had offered to aid her in her quest but considering that their best men were scarred and that they’d already lost so many men to these monsters, she refused their help. It would only lead them to their pointless deaths; besides, she preferred to work alone. The villagers gave her directions to the harpies’ nest, and she set off immediately. Although the villagers wanted her to rest, prepare for battle and perhaps bathe properly, she was always ready to fight and she had all the tools she would need. More importantly, these stolen children worried her, and she didn’t want to waste time.
Although they had faces and could stand tall on two legs, harpies were not at all civilized, they were simple beasts. They had no need for hostages, and they preferred larger prey, because they hunted for meat and children offered less than the plentiful stock of a farming village. So, Medusa could not make head nor tail of these stolen children. At best, these children were a snack to these creatures, but she had never known a harpy to keep its prey alive for very long, let alone the time it would take for a dozen men to travel through these canyons to their nest. Her only hope was that, for whatever reason, the harpies had not yet harmed the children; but it was like trusting lions with lambs.
The path to into the canyon was sheer and uneven, with green mosses and lichen growing over the ancient landscape. She ran, steadily, a rising rocky escarpment either side, slowly growing to tower over her as she entered into the canyon. The great divide was carved by nature a great crack between mountains. Moss seemed to envelop the surfaces within, like a parasitic skin, and the path down the very centre was a dry riverbed of smooth pebbles. Her heavy boots crunched the pebbles underfoot as she raced deeper into the great expanse, and the surrounding rock echoed sound back to her. The loose trail made it almost impossible to remain silent as she made her way to the nest, and the lichenous slopes either side were too treacherous to traverse. They would hear her coming before she was even close. Medusa unfastened the bow from her back, checked the tension of the string, then held it at the ready. If they did hear her coming, then she would see them overhead in this great, open space, and shoot them before they were even close.
She knew she was entering harpy territory when she saw the bones. Ribs, cracked femurs, beaks, shoulderblades, all left scattered about the edges of their nesting grounds, but from the smell and the splattered, black stains on the rocks, Medusa knew that these hadn’t been picked clean when the harpies had left them there. The birds didn’t need to eat much, but they were deciduous. They preferred the softer, inner organs, and in times of plenty would leave the gutted remains of their prey to die and rot on the rocks. They killed so many to feed so few, it was barbaric.
Medusa suddenly stopped still. She made no sound and waited for the echo to die. It sounded like a light, rhythmic wind, but it was echoing softly within the canyon walls. Wingbeats. Medusa nocked an arrow. She whistled, high-pitched, a falcon-call that screeched throughout the expanse. She wanted the birds to know right where she was. To fly straight and give her an easy shot. No such luck.
A harpy landed on the edge of the escarpment to her left and peered at her. The creatures were as deadly as they were beautiful. They had long, fair hair; light, untanned skin; sleek, smooth curves all over their naked forms and their winged arms were a flawless, alabaster white. They looked almost like angels, but their hands and feet were toned with muscle and tipped with cruel, curved and wickedly sharp black claws; and Medusa knew, from experience, that they had devilish, sharp, little teeth.
Medusa quickly spun and loosed the arrow, it slid straight through the monster’s eye. The corpse crunched as its hollow bones cracked on the rocks and she spun and looked up to the see a pair of attackers, diving at her. She fired two arrows in quick succession. She caught one in the wing and the other in the shoulder, then rolled forward, out of the way. They were mere fleshwounds, but the two creatures were paralyzed by the power of Medusa’s bow. Their bodies fell limply to the riverbed, face-first, cracking their heads like eggs. Swiftly and clinically, Medusa ripped the arrows from the dead beasts. As she did, one of them shuddered violently, in pain, as it regained its movement. The creature had been brained on the rocks, it was no threat, so she turned and walked away. She left it to slowly die and rot on the rocks.
Deeper and deeper into the harpies’ nest, the piles of bones and discarded bodies grew. because the connecting tissues were not all rotted away, she began to recognize what they once were from their shapes; owl, sheep, wolf, deer, cow. She also began to smell the stinking corpses, but what truly turned her nose was the sight of shredded clothing, seeing it gave her the urge to kill something. Medusa whistled again, with her piercing falcon-cry. The beasts knew that she was in their territory, but she didn’t want them to think she was dead. The more scouts they sent out, the less she would have to face when they found their nest; and the more they’d have to concentrate on her, rather than the stolen children.
Another band of harpies flies into view, around a curve in the canyon. They were far away all flying together, so Medusa lines up an arrow, takes aim and fires. She hits one them in the forehead, and it goes tumbling down into the rocks below, but the other five harpies scatter left and right, out of view, behind the high walls. Medusa readied another arrow, but the harpies were still hidden from view. She started to step forward, slowly checking the sky above her for signs of the creatures. Two harpies appeared over the wall to the right, and dove at her. She leapt up at them and fired an arrow. It sliced through a harpy’s eye. Her feet were unsteady and she began to slip on the mossy rock, but the harpy flew towards her. Medusa swung her bow like a club. The heavy bow cracked into the harpy’s jaw, sending it sideways. Its claws raked across her armoured torso as it fell. Medusa turned to face three more attackers. She leapt off the rock wall at the nearest harpy, screaming like a brazen bull. She collided with the harpy in the air, and the weight of them both slammed the harpy against the rocks with a crack. Medusa pried the claws from her arms, and turned back to the fight, bleeding.
The other harpies doubled back, so Medusa dropped her bow and drew her xiphos. One harpy flew around her with outstretched claws, and she sliced through its hand, spilling fingers and blood on the pebbles as it screamed and fell. Then, Medusa turned to the last creatures and sliced upwards through its face. It seemed to flip from the momentum before falling on its back with the splat of its skull contents. Slowly, Medusa turned to the harpy with the cut hand, it was fretting about, trying to fly and flicking blood everywhere as it tried to fly away, bleeding heavily. After a few seconds, the harpy began to slow, then it fell and passed out. It seemed almost cruel, but Medusa need only remember that the rest of the corpses were killed by these creatures, and she grimly bent down to pick up her bow.
     “Go away,” rasped a wicked voice. Medusa raised her blade and turned towards the harpy she’d smashed on the rocks. It looked as though its spine was broken, but the creature was still alive.
     “You dare speak to me?” demanded Medusa. “You kidnapping, torturing, murderous beast!”
     “Don’t hurt... children...” the creature said, choking on its own, broken neck. Medusa stepped closer and pressed the sword to the creature’s exposed chest.
     “If you have harmed any of our children, I will kill every single one of you.”
     “Hurt children... you die!” sneered the monster. Medusa slid her blade into its chest, and the harpy was silenced.

†

The nest wasn’t far now. Further down the canyon, the path turned sharply to the left, and up on the corner, there was a hollow in the wall. And the shape of the rockface looked like a howling wolf. From within its maw, a huge mass of twigs and branches covered the lower surface, decorated with ribs and sharpened bones. As she approached, Medusa whistled again, to draw the harpie out. However, she saw four, large harpies peek out from the nest and watch her approach. Medusa came within several metres, then stood her ground, underneath. The nest was up the mossy slope and three metres up the wall. And from their vantage point, four harpies peered down at her, suspiciously.
     “Come and get me!” cried Medusa, swiping her sword in the air, making a sharp whoosh with the tip of the blade. “What are you waiting for?!”
The harpies weren’t moving. It didn’t make any sense to the huntress. They were scavengers, and would attack on sight, killing on instinct even if they weren’t hungry. Yet, they sat and stared from their perch. Medusa used the opportunity to call for the children.
     “My name is Medusa the Gorgon! I have come to rescue you; can you hear me!” she cried out. There was no response, and for a moment, she racked her brain trying to remember. “Isis?! Dorsus? ...Polybius! Is anyone alive?! Orianthe!”
     “Help us!” cried a small voice. One of the harpies turned and hissed at the child as it wandered deeper into the nest. Medusa heard them shriek and so aimed an arrow. Letting it loose, one of the harpies fell out of the nest, an arrow sticking out of its forehead. The remaining two hissed and shrieked at her, but they still didn’t leave their perch. One of the harpies picked up a jawbone and threw it at her. Medusa batted it away with her bow and aimed with another arrow, but now both of the harpies were throwing bones, twigs and pebbles at her. Medusa had to dodge a few, so as not to get clocked in the head with a rock or pelvic bone. It was too difficult to shoot with the harpies hiding in their nest, and it was incredibly annoying having things thrown at her, so she put the bow around her shoulder and raced up the mossy slope towards the canyon wall. The creatures stopped throwing things, as they couldn’t aim their shots. Medusa looked along the wall surface for a good handhold, so she could climb up. when one of the harpies reached down and grabbed her by the shoulder. Medusa grabbed right back, wrapping her fingers around its throat, but the harpy dragged her up the wall, into the nest.
Bones and branches scraped at her body as she was pulled through the nest padding and into the mouth of the hollow. There the other harpy grabbed at her legs and bit into her kneecap. Screaming in pain, Medusa elbowed back at the first harpy, then punched towards the biting fiend, breaking its nose. The harpy behind grabbed at her neck, and Medusa instinctively grabbed at the offending hand. She’d be dead if those claws cut across her neck, and she could already feel the pinpricks of it digging into her tender flesh. Medusa turned her head and bit into the harpy’s forearm. It recoiled and Medusa jumped to her feet. She drew her xiphos and stared at the two harpies, with the third hidden in the darkness further back.
     “Who wants to see Hades?” she snarled. The harpy with the broken nose struck first. The lunge was one of sound and fury, so Medusa rolled with it. As the creature dove, the huntress ducked and kicked up at the harpy’s stomach as it sailed overhead and was booted out of the nest. Medusa rolled back onto her feet and swiped with the sword, splitting the harpy’s torso. Screaming, the harpy swiped back with her claw, slashing Medusa’s arm. Swinging again, Medusa cleaved the harpy’s head from its shoulders. Then, she saw the children, still being kept in line by the third harpy and was about to run forward to grab its neck, when she went flying sideways.
Something tackled her and she was falling out of the nest, she caught a glimpse of the harpy with the broken nose, which had flown back to attack. With quick reflexes and a little luck, Medusa managed to grab the harpy’s ankle and felt her stomach drop as her feet swung down with gravity. The harpy shrieked and grabbed onto Medusa’s wrist with her clawed foot, and the Gorgon let out a scream of animalistic rage.Without thinking, she swung her sword upwards, slicing through the harpy’s upper thigh and femoral artery. The harpy dropped her and Medusa fell, with a splay of blood cascading behind her. As she fell to the ground, and crouched to dispel the impact, the blood splattered on top of her.Medusa quickly wiped some of the blood off her arms, hoping it hadn’t smeared into her own weeping wounds.
“Gods, “she groaned, spitting in disgust, “I hope these harpies don’t have herpes.” Medusa took in her surroundings and found herself on the other side of the nest, with the dying harpy behind her screaming in pain as it bled out. Wasting no time, she ran and leapt up the rock wall. She slipped slightly, then pulled herself up and grabbed ahold of a twisted branch that made up the nesting and hauled herself up. Standing up straight within the nest, she turned to see the last harpy, and what looked like more than twenty children huddled behind her, looking dirty, pitiful and terrified. The third harpy looked slightly different. A little older, sagging in a few more places and with longer hair, but still as vicious as ever. Medusa the Gorgon held up her bloodied sword.
     “Just give me the children,” said Medusa, quietly, trying to remain calm. But through the dark, seeing the scratches and bitemarks on the children’s arms and faces, it wasn’t easy. All she wanted was for the harpy to move away from the children so she could kill it without the innocents getting hurt.
     “Our children!” hissed the elder harpy.
     “There are no more of you left, here,” said Medusa. “You’re the last one.”
The harpy replied with a harsh screech. “You can’t take them. They will starve!”
“Get away from them!” screamed Medusa. She stepped forward, and the harpy stepped back into the cave. But stepping into the darkness, Medusa saw something else amongst the children. At first, she had thought the dark shapes to be more children. But between the children were large, round objects, too smooth to be rock from the cave. They were large eggs. Medusa had never seen anything like them before, but they must have been harpy eggs. And those words suddenly sounded different in Medusa’s head: Our children...
Medusa started to walk slowly backwards. And slowly lowered her sword. She knew two things, first of all, that no fury could compare to that of a mother protecting her child, so she dare not risk getting two close. She removed the bow from her shoulder and slowly, carefully, aimed an arrow at the elder harpy. Because she also knew the reason why the harpies had stolen the children, and it wasn’t for a playtime with their newborns. It was for feeding time. She loosed the arrow, and it shot right into the harpy’s heart. It wouldn’t kill her instantly, but the power of the bow meant that she would be paralyzed. The harpy fell back, and the children scattered so she didn’t fall on top of them. Instead, she landed on top of one of the eggs,with a sick crack, spilling gunk throughout the patch of nestled twigs.
     “Come on then,” said Medusa, “let’s get you home.”

†

Because the nest was too high from the children to jump down from, Medusa knelt by the edge and, one at a time, she helped to lower the children down so they could drop only a metre or so. There were only twelve of them, but after seven of them, where safely on the ground, she called over the eighth, the youngest girl, but when she lowered her down, she started squealing.
     “No! I don’t want to fall!” she cried.
     “Let go,” ordered Medusa.
     “No, I can’t! Pull me back up!” the girl screamed, more high pitched
     “Don’t be foolish. You have to let go, so you can go home.”
The girl started crying, and Medusa was tired and had half a mind to flick her wrist and drop the girl, but instead she gritted her teeth.
     “What’s your name?”
     “Isias,” she said, closing her eyes.
     “Right, Isias? Your mother is waiting for you. Back at Metaxas, all she wants is for you to come home. Do you want to see your mother?”
     “Mhmm,” she murmured, nodding.
     “Then let go, and you will.”
After a moment, Isias opened her eyes. Her grip began to loosen and she slid off Medusa’s arm, and landed on the rock below. She stumbled, but still stayed upright. Medusa turned and helped the next child down. he didn’t struggle in the least. But, as she lowered him down, she heard something behind her. Crack. Medusa glanced behind her, and saw two of the eggs, wiggling. Crack, crack-crack. All together, the eggs were hatching. The boy let go, and Medusa grabbed the next child.
     “Quickly now,” she said. She lowered the boy down, and after dangling for a moment, he took a breath and dropped. “Alright, next.” Medusa turned to the last two children, a boy and a girl,but there was a frantic screeching sound, like bats deeper in the cave. The kids turned to it and quickly.
     “What’s happening?” asked the boy, sounding scared. As he spoke, four of the eggs had hatched and little, baby harpies were peeling eggshell off themselves. They looked hideous. They looked nothing like the little cherubs one might expect, they were skinny and emaciated, like tiny, old men, with spots on their skin, covered in yolk, with thin strands of hair matted to their heads, feathers bundled up under their armpits and their eyes were shut tight, but bulging madly out of their heads. They sniffed at the air and bumped into one another blindly.
     “Come on, quickly,” Medusa said, as quietly as she could. she grabbed the boy and lowered him down. He seemed eager to let go, fall on the ground and get away from the nest. More of the eggs began to crack and the others, still dripping with goo and covered in shards of shell, started to wander towards the light. As they did, the last girl started to whimper and whine out of fear, turning every blind eye towards them. To silence her, Medusa grabbed her close, putting a hand around her mouth. “You’ll be safe. Hold my arm.”
The girl did as she said, and Medusa lowered her down, but the girl’s frightened hands didn’t loosen her grip.
     “Let go,” said Isias on the ground, “you can do it.”
The girl seemed to be shaking when one of the harpy hatchlings bit Medusa on the leg.
“GAHH!” screamed Medusa. She flinched, flicking the girl off her arm, sending her screaming to the ground. Medusa drew her sword and slapped the hatchling in the face with the flat edge, batting it away so she could stand, then she called down “Are you alright?”
     “She’s okay!” said Isias.
Then something else bit Medusa’s leg. She swung the sword, cleaving the little thing in two, but then two more clambered up her other leg. They were crawling all over her. She couldn’t swing the sword into her own limbs, so she reached down and crushed one of their nubile skulls between her hands, but more of them used the chance to jump onto her shoulders.
     “Get OFF!” screamed the huntress, as she grabbed one by the leg and flung it into the stone wall with a splat, but more of the hungry monsters were grabbing at her with needle-like claws and biting into her, and even more were hatching. Medusa unhooked her bow from her person and swung it at her own body like a club, but the critters were fast, smearing her own blood over her as they clambered around her limbs. In pain, and desperate to get the creatures off, Medusa pulled her arms through the bow and pulled it over her head, then down her body before stepping her legs through it. As she did, the hatchlings were scraped off her body and fell to the padded floor.
Then, with obvious contempt and malice, she began stomping on the little bastards with her heavy boots, with a disturbing yet satisfying wet crunch every time. Then she took her sword, walked over to the unhatched eggs and with one swing, split the rest in half, spraying blood and yolk over the back wall of the cave.
Turning back, she walked to the edge of the nest and looked down at the children. They were all looking up at her, expectantly.
     “Come on, children,” she said. “Let’s take you home...”

†

The parents and people of Metaxas were overjoyed when Medusa walked through the centre of town, with a crowd of children behind her. They ran forth and there was laughter and tears from everyone as they were reunited, and families hugged, despite the grime and muck on all of the children. Medusa merely went to the farmer that had promised her a horse, and asked him to pay his debt. After hugging his son a dozen more times, he finally left, and came back with a strong, brown mare with a saddle on its back. Medusa thanked the man and was about to mount it, when a small child called to her.
     “Where are you going?” She turned to see which of them was calling to her, when a little girl tackled her leg, hugging it tight, despite the bite marks and blood all over it.
     “I’m moving along,” said Medusa, recognizing her as the girl she’d accidentally dropped.
     “We’re going to celebrate, you need to stay.”
Medusa frowned, but instead bit her tongue and crouched down to look her in the eye.
     “I don’t stay,” said Medusa. “I never stay.”
     “But it’s for you. To thank you.”
Medusa looked into those pretty eyes, on the girl’s dirty but otherwise sweet face.
     “That you’re alive is thanks enough,” said Medusa. She kissed the girl’s forehead, then mounted her new horse and rode off, without turning back.

Counting Black Sheep, (Phase 3)

The next morning, I decided to see my grandmother, Etta Wardell. She's lived in Hollow Falls much longer than Dad and me, and she's the only person I trust as much as him. Maybe even a little more, since she understands stuff that a boy often can't. I can always rely on her, when I need advice.
It's just a short walk, so I knock on her door with my good hand and wait. She answers the door wearing a grey skirt and a nice, white blouse, with her long, gray hair neatly twirled up in a bun. Despite her age, she's always looked pretty youthful, with barely any wrinkles besides crow's feet.
  "Bianca?" she says, frowning. "Shouldn't you be in school, love?"
  "No, I can't go," I say. "Grammy, I need to talk to you about Grandpa."
  "Alright. Come in, I'll make you a cup of tea."
She leads me through her house, and I follow like an obedient puppy, closing the front door behind us. The place is lush, and well-kept, her lounge room full of photographs and little figurines of animals and dominated by a grandfather clock that ticks along reliably. We head into her cosy, little kitchen, and she puts a kettle on the stove, as I wait, staring.
  "What did you do to your hand?" asks Grammy, pointing to my bandaged hand. I'd wrapped it up with some gauze from the bathroom cupboard.
  "Oh, it's... I got it from a, uh... a sheep bite," I say.
  "Oof... nasty things, them." say Grammy, walking over to sit at the kitchen table. "You're lucky you didn't lose s finger. Sit down, sit down."
  "Sorry," I mumble, and I pull out the chair and drop into it. "I'm a bit out of it."
  "You look tired, Bianca. What's the matter?"
  "I can't sleep," I say. "I haven't slept in five days."
  "Five days?" says Grammy, concerned. "How are you still standing?"
I don't know what to say, so I just shrug.
  "Grammy, I want to ask you something. I know it's weird, but..." I trail off, as I try to find the words. "am I cursed?"
  "Cursed?" she asks, frowning so deeply, you can actually see her subtle wrinkles on her forehead. "What are you talking about?"
  "Like... I dunno," I say, gesturing with my hands to try to show what I'm trying to say, but I just end up waving them around like an idiot. "Like, my Mum died, and Grandpa died, so what about me? Is our family... doomed to die in our sleep?"
  "No, it's not a curse," says Grammy.
  "But, what did Grandpa see?" I ask. "Were you with him in the end? Did he see anything?"
  "I don't know, Bianca, he died in his sleep. I don't think he saw it coming, but we'll never know."
  "But, before," I insist. "Did he see anything weird before he died? Like visions of a reaper, or black sheep?"
  "No, he never saw anyone comign after him, if that's what you mean. But, as for sheep, he definitely saw a black sheep." The sound of the kettle whistling interrupts before I can speak, and my grandmother gets up to fetch the pot. "Cup of tea?"
  "Uh, yeah..." I say. "Grammy, what do you mean, he definitely saw a black sheep?"
  "When your grandfather was alive, we owned a sheep farm, dear. Ten-twenty-two Eureka Highway," she says.
  "Oh, right," I mumble. I remember Mum telling me that my grandfather was a sheep farmer. It was so long ago, I must have forgotten about it. "And they were black?"
  "Not all of them, but quite a few. He thought they were good luck, since it meant they had good stock, a nice mix of genes." Granny puts a cup of milky tea in front of me, and sits across from me again, this time holding a steaming mug.
  "But when he died, he didn't talk about... I mean, did he have trouble sleeping?"
  "Your Grandpa kept to himself, Bianca. If you want to know what he was going through, you'd have to ask him."
  "But he's dead, Grammy!" I say. "That's why I'm asking you."
  "Just because he's dead, doesn't mean he's gone," she says, reaching over a hand to squeeze mine. "When I'm feeling lost, looking for answers, I sometimes go and talk to him."
  "Talk to him? How?"
  "I go and visit him, at the churchyard," says Grammy. "I tell him what I'm going through."
  "Visit him?" I say. I slowly pick up the warm mug of tea and take a sip. It's warm, and although it tastes a little bland, my stomach grumbles instead of retching, so I gladly drink it down.
  "If you want answers, maybe you should talk to him as well. It can help..."

Even though it was still early morning, the cloud cover made it look late and dreary in the afternoon as I head through the open gates of Hollow Falls Cemetery. There are gravestones cluttered closely together, plots outlined in concrete and headstones of all shapes and sizes, from squat, little plaques, to large statues of angels, and I can even see two mausoleums, those little houses for dead people. I stumble around on my unsteady feet. How do they organize graveyards? Chronologically? Alphabetically? I look from one headstone to another, looking for 'Henry Wardell', but I don't even know where to even start. That's when I see those familiar, red eyes. There are several of them, waiting deeper within the cemetery, standing amidts the gravestones. I head over, careful to walk around each plot as I make my way over. There are four of them waiting for me in a little group, all facing towards me, all as black as smoke, with eerie, dark faces and eyes like blazing rubies.
As I get near enough, I see that they're standing close together, on a grave, and as I get close enough to touch them, they step aside, two on the left, two on the right, flanking the grave. Sure enough, the epitaph on the gravestone reads: 'John Harrod - 1925-1991'
The sheep are staring at me, but otherwise just standing there. Maybe they're waiting for something. Well, my grandmother said I should talk to him, so...
  "Hey, Grandpa," I mumble. "I've never spoken to you before, but I know what you look like from your pictures. I'm your granddaughter, Bianca. I'm, like, your only granddaughter..."
I feel stupid, but I trust my grandmother. She said it helps her, so maybe it can help me.
  "What did you see before you died? Do you know what killed you?" I ask. "Was it... uh... was it the reaper that I see in my dreams?"
I wait quietly, staring at the grave, swaying slightly from standing up so long on tired legs. But, I don't hear any answers, or see anything. I'm not sure what I was expecting.
One of the black sheep to the left of me moves closer towards me, and reaches out its face towards my bandaged, left hand.
  "No!" I snap, yanking my hand away. The sheep backs away, scared, and bumps into the sheep behind it, and the two move to the side. I notice that they were standing on a grave that was right next to Grandpa's, with just half a foot between each headstone. I recognize the name.
  "Mum?" I say, stepping closer. I didn't realize they were buried so close together. But, sure enough, it says "Rachel Elise Wardell 1975-2002"
Maybe I should have talked to her, instead. I never even knew my grandfather...
  "Mum, what should I do?" I ask. But now I just feel silly. I know she can't hear me. This is stupid. I look over at the sheep, still standing around on top of the graves. Surely that must be disrespectful.
  "Shoo!" I say, stepping forward. "Get off! Get out of here!" I yell. The sheep back away, still staring at me. That's when I see the headstone on the other side, and stop dead still. I recognize a third name: 'Michael Wardell 1971-2002'
  "Dad?" I walk over, staring at the stone. That doesn't make any sense, my father is alive!
Then I see the gravestone right next to it: 'Bianca Wardell 1992-2007'
No... no, this is impossible. I stand over my own grave, staring at the untended grass. This is a dream. But how can this be a dream? I woke up, didn't I?
The bony fingers of a skeleton burst out of the grave, and wrap around my leg.
  "Aaagh!" I shriek. I try to kick it off, but it quickly pulls into the grave, and drags my leg with it. I feel the cold dirt drag me up to my knee. "NO! Let Go!"
I fall over as it drags me deeper, pulling me up to my waist, and I feel the dirt scraping my skin as it spills under my shirt, the cold earth clinging to me. The black sheep surround me, as it covers up to my waist, and the sheep look down at me, staring that thousand-mile stare.
  "Please, help!" I call out, pawing at the dirt around their hooves, but they just watch coldly as dirt spills over my shoulders. Then my chin, then I'm dragged into the darkness.

  "AAAAGH!" I scream, sitting up on the couch.
  "No, it's okay, it's okay. You're in my office," says Dr Jacobs.
  "What's going on?" I say, glancing around. I'm in the psychiatric clinic again, sitting on the couch.
  "You fell asleep," says Dr Jacobs. "I didn't want to wake you."
  "How did I get here?" I ask.
  "I think your father brought you by car," she says.
I look at my hands. The bandage is gone, and there's not a scratch on me.
  "How long was I asleep?" I ask.
  "Only a few minutes," says Dr Jacobs.
  "That's impossible," I say. "I dreamed that... I mean, it felt like so long."
  "It can be hard to keep track of time in our dreams," says Dr Jacobs. "Can I ask what you were dreaming about?"
  "I don't know, I... I don't know when it started."
  "Well, why don't you tell me about the last thing you remember, and we'll go from there."
  "Okay..." I say, readjusting myself on the couch. "Well, I was at the cemetery, at my grandfather's grave, and I saw my Mum's grave. Then my Dad's - then mine."
  "You saw your own grave?" says Dr Jacobs.
  "Yeah, and then a hand came up and grabbed me, and dragged me down. That's what woke me up."
  "That's pretty intense," says Dr Jacobs. "And, what do you think it means?"
  "That I'm gonna die," I say. "I mean, pulled into my grave isn't exactly 'subtle metaphor', is it?"
  "And how many sheep were there?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "Four. There were four this time," I say. "But I don't know what it means. My grandmother said that they're good luck."
  "Well, that's possible," says Dr Jacobs. "What we see in dreams can mean a lot of things. Sheep can mean good fortune, but some people believe that black sheep represent in dreams someone close to you that you can't trust. In Scottish folklore, they represent the devil, but it might just represent that you feel like a black sheep in your family... like you don't fit in."
  "I think I can trust them, though. They lead me to the graves in the first place."
  "But, one of them bit your hand, earlier. Isn't that a sign of aggression?"
  "I don't know, I, uh..." I look at my hands again. "Wait, how did you know it bit my hand?"
  "Because you told me about that before."
  "Before what?" I say. "That was the same dream."
  "No, that was on Tuesday, Bianca."
  "It is Tuesday!" I say, annoyed.
  "No, Bianca. It's Thursday, your follow-up appointment. I think your memory problems are getting worse. You've been awake for seven days, now."
  "No no no... no, that's impossible, I've only been awake for five days."
  "But, your appointment is on Thursday. If it was still Tuesday, then why are you in my office?"
  "Because this isn't real... this is a dream," I say.
  "No, Bianca, we talked about this."
  "No, we didn't! I never talked to you about my dreams!"
  "You did, Bianca, you just don't remember..." says Dr Jacobs, with a look of concern. "I know this is confusing, honey. Try to remember. But, it's okay if you can't."
I put both my hands on either side of my head. I feel so tired... what's going on?
  "This can't be real... how can I forget two whole days?"
  "It's been known to happen."
  "But then, when was I dreaming? And, how did you know about the black sheep?"
  "You mentioned you first started seeing black sheep, in your first session," says Dr Jacobs.
  "My first session?"
  "Yes, last Friday." says Dr Jacobs.
  "My last..." I try to remember. "No... no, you're lying. I didn't see black sheep until the next day, after I tried the meditation!"
  "No, I'm not confused. This... this is a dream. Nothing else makes sense."
Dr Jacobs sighs.
  "Alright, let's say for just a moment that this is a dream. Then what?"
  "Well, then, I should wake up," I say.
  "And how are you going to do that?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "I don't know," I say. "Usually, something comes and grabs me."
  "Well, nobody is going to come grab you in here," says Dr Jacobs. "Like I said in our first session, this is a safe place. Nobody is allowed in here, without my say so."
  "Okay..." I say. "Well, how can I wake up?"
  "Bianca, why would you want to wake up? You haven't slept in a week. If this truly was a dream, and you believe that you're asleep, shouldn't you stay asleep? Wouldn't that be best for you, at this stage?"
  "No!" I say.
  "Why not?" asks Dr Jacobs. "I thought you wanted to sleep."
  "Because..." I shrug. "Because I can't tell what's real."
  "Okay, well, we talked about this... if you want to tell what's real from what's not, you need to ground yourself, meditate on this reality, in this moment in time."
  "I don't want to ground myself in this reality, I want to wake up."
  "Bianca, you're not asleep."
  "Doctor, you told me that it's up to me what my goal is in therapy, right?"
  "Yes..." says Dr Jacobs, frowning. "That is true."
  "Well, my goal is to wake up."
Dr Jacobs sighs.
  "Okay... well, it's goot to have a firm goal. But it should also be achievable."
  "Then let's say this is a dream. How do I wake up?"
  "Well, if you were sleeping, I know of three ways that you can wake up from a dream. But I should say, this isn't psychiatry, we're talking about lucid dreaming, here."
  "Okay, well, how do I wake up?"
  "Well, some people try reading," says Dr Jacobs
  "Reading what?"
  "Anything. If you're dreaming, then it's more difficult to read, because your mind has to write the words and read them at the same time, even though the speech centres of your brain are switched off. But, reading can sometimes turn it back on, and that wakes you up."
  "Okay, do you have a book I can read?" I ask.
Dr Jacobs takes one of the books from her desk and hands it to me. It's a book about something called 'cognitive behavioural therapy'. I open to a random page and read the words. It's pretty dry, but I can read most of the words fine, so long as they're not big, sciencey words.
  "Okay, that didn't work. What else?" I say.
  "Well, some people pinch themselves," says Dr Jacobs.
I grab some skin on my forearm between my fingers and squeeze.
  "Ow! Shit... that hurt."
  "Well, of course it hurt... this is real, Bianca! Please, I don't want you to hurt yourself."
  "What's the third one?" I say.
  "Blink," says Dr Jacobs, with an exasperated sigh.
  "Blink?" I say. I blink my eyes a few times.
  "No, you have to really shut your eyes tight," says Dr Jacobs. "See, when we're asleep, our eyes are closed. Most people don't blink in dreams at all. But, if you shut your eyes tight, then open them, it can force your body to open your actual eyes."
  "Okay," I say, closing my eyes tight. I squeeze them shut.
  "Bianca, I think it's time you admitted to yourself that this isn't a dream," says Dr Jacobs. "I know you've gone through a lot, in the past week, but-"
I open my eyes. I'm staring at the ceiling, which is being lit by the sun streaming in through the window. I try to sit up, but I still feel a but fuzzy from the dream. I slowly push myself up against the headboard, and look at the window. The curtains are open, but there's a thin, white, lacy curtain, letting light spill into the room. I hear a familiar, soft ticking sound. It takes me a second to realize that it's a grandfather clock, like in my grandmother's house.
  "Grammy...?" I say, but my throat is so dry, it sounds like a whisper. I roll my tongue around my mouth and swallow. "Grammy?"
After a few seconds, I head footsteps on the other side of the wall. A door off to the side opens, and I see Grammy come in, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders, over her white blouse.
  "Bianca, you're awake?" she says.
  "Yeah," I say. "How long was I asleep?"
  "Three days," says Grammy. "I was worried after the last time you woke up, how are you feeling?"
  "I'm okay... my throat's a little dry," I say.
  "I'll get you a cup of herbal tea," says Grammy. "Wait here."
She stands up and heads out of the room, walking past the tall post on the corner of the bed. It's then that I realize I'm in a big, old-fashioned bed, with four tall poles on each corner, and I'm covered with a lush, warm blanket, cream-coloured with pink flowers patterned all over it. After a minute, Grammy comes back with a cup and saucer.
  "Here you are, dear. Drink up," she says. I shakily take the cup and saucer, and take a sip. It's very sweet, but it's warm and helps wet my dry throat, so I gulp a mouthful.
  "Thank you," I say.
Granny takes the cup from me, and places it on the wooden, bedside table.
  "Where am I?" I ask.
  "This is my guest room," says Grammy.
  "It looks just like my dream," I say.
  "What dream?" asks Grammy.
  "It was weird..." I say. "I couldn't sleep for days, because I'd had this nightmare that this dark figure, a reaper, came and strangled me in my dreams. It was in a room just like this."
  "I am sorry about that," says Grammy.
  "It's not your fault," I say.
  "I'm afraid it is, my dear," says Grammy. "The last time you got out of bed, I panicked. I had to stop you. So, I strangled you, until you fell unconscious."
  "What?" I say, giggling. "What are you talking about?"
Grammy's face looks stone-cold serious.
  "I couldn't let you leave, after all this time..." says Granny. "But I'm sorry that I had to choke you. That must have been terrifying."
  "But you..." I lift my arm to point at her, but my hand weakly falls on the bed and shivers. "What's happening?"
  "Good, the tea is working," says Grammy. "If you're paralyzed, hopefully you won't go waking up anymore."
  "Paralyzed? But, I have to go home."
  "This is your home." says Grammy. "You've lived with me for ten years now. After I killed your parents..."
I feel a cold shiver down my spine.
  "Buh... why?" I stammer. As I speak, my mouth is starting to go numb, and I can barely move.
  "When I killed your grandfather, it was a mercy. Alzheimer's - terrible way to die - so I saved him from those last few years of misery, and took them for myself," says Granny, pulling me down into bed like a ragdoll, and tucking me under the covers. "There we are... but, I didn't know that along with his life, I'd taken his death as well. I started to lose my memory. So, I was forced to kill Rachel, take her years, to put off that death for a while. But, I was still losing my mind. Magic is a fickle thing, child..."
As she fluffs up my pillow and fixes my hair, I feel her cold, thin fingers on my face, and as she leans over me, I see the shadow of her hair against the sunlight, it looks like a black hood... it really was her. She was the reaper I saw, in my nightmare. You've already lost your mind... I want to say - but I can't. I can't speak. I can't move my mouth.
  "I realized that the only way to slow the disease wasn't just to take years from someone's life, but their life force, and their mind as well. Your father tried to stop me... he died slowly."
I want to scream, I want to jump out of bed, slap her and run out of this house, but my body won't co-operate. I'm as stiff as a corpse. My grandmother keeps talking, enjoying her captive audience.
  "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I had no other choice," says Grammy. "But don't worry, I won't strangle you again. I truly am sorry about that. This time I'll do the spell properly. I promise, this time the dream will seem as real as before. Now, close your eyes..."
I stare at her, stunned. Frozen still, and terrified.
  "Oh, sorry, I forgot. Paralyzed - you can't blink..." says Grammy. she touches my face with a cold hand, and pushes my eyelids closed. "Goodnight, Bianca. Sweet dreams..."

THE END

Counting Black Sheep, (Phase 2)

I walk down the school hallway, feeling like some kind of zombie. My first class of the day is chemistry, with Mr Hill, and I feel like a lamb going to the slaughter... man, I really do have sheep on the brain.
The thing is, I hate science, I just don't have the brain for it, and Mr Hill is so boring. I feel like I'm going to fall asleep during science at the best of times, but after four days without sleep...
I rub at my throat as I remember the nightmare from last night. I don't want to go through that again... I can't fall asleep in class.
I head into class early and pick a seat near the back. Mr Hill usually only picks on kids at the front of the class. I sit down, and rub my eyes. My eyelids feel hot under my fingers from my dry eyes. I glance out the window, at the school oval. It seems to shine green under the bright, summer sun.
  "I hate you, sunlight..." I groan.
The bell rings, and after a minute the rest of the students pour into the classroom. Mr Hill comes in, in his usual, grey pinstripe suit. I take a book out of my  bag, and put it on my desk, to look like I'm paying attention.
  "Hello..." mumbles Mr Hill, heading over to his desk, and putting down his briefcase. "Right. So, today, I wanted to move onto the next module for organic chemistry; but first, we should pick up where we left off, and finish our lesson about sugars... so, can we please re-open our text book to page forty."
Everyone takes out their books and flips to the page, and I slowly do the same. I don't remember much from that lesson except that sugars were sweet, so I turn to the page and stare at the words without reading them. What is the point of learning all of this?
  "Harry, can you tell me, what is a monosaccharide?" Mr Hill asks, and one of the kids murmurs out an answer I can't hear, before Mr Hill writes something on the blackboard...
I wish I didn't have to go to school, I even told Dad it was pointless, but he said that "feeling tired" wasn't an excuse not to go to class. I mean, I don't see the point if I can't learn - I can barely focus on the blackboard, let alone what the teacher is saying - how can I learn anything?
Honestly, the only reason why I'm not skipping school entirely is that the thought of seeing my friends at lunch cheers me up a bit. The idea of staying home all day, alone, unable to sleep would probably drive me insane.
I look out the window, at the oval. The bright sunlight hurts my eyes, but I still think I'd be happier out there, doing laps. I've always enjoyed sport, and maybe if I could go for a run - get my blood pumping - that might keep me awake. I rub my eyes again, feeling a headache from staring at the brightness too long. I bury my head in my hands, rubbing my face, and with a sigh, look out the window again. I see red eyes staring back at me. They're all the way down on the oval, but I can see black sheep. Not just one, there's two of them. They're standing close together, and with their identical, smokey wool, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, but those blazing, red eyes are unmistakeable, and I can see two pairs, looking up at me. Am I hallucinating? I rub my eyes again.
  "Bianca!" snaps Mr Hill, from the front of the classroom, and I flinch, as I open my eyes, looking at the teacher. "Perhaps you need a bit more energy, if you're having so much trouble staying awake."
  "What?" I say, confused.
  "Have you been paying attention, Miss Wardell?" asks Mr Hill.
  "Yeah," I lie. "I just thought I saw sheep..."
I look out the window. Sure enough, the sheep are still there, glaring at me.
  "Excellent," says Mr Hill. "Then, would you mind explaining the chemical process of glycolysis to the class, please?"
  "Uhh..." I look down at page forty in front of me, scanning for the word glycolysis, but I can't see it. "Glycolysis-sis-sis-sis..."
  "Bianca, come here please," says Mr Hill, he points at me, and then upturns and curls his pointer finger towards himself, beckoning me forward.
I stand up from my chair, and head for the front of the classroom, as I do, I hear some of the other kids snickering. Mr Hill points to the board. "Bianca, what is this?"
He is pointing at a chemical structure diagram.
  "Uhh... sugar?" I say.
  "Yes, this is glucose..." says Mr Hill.
  "Uh huh, okay..." I say.
Several of the other kids are giggling. I glance back at them, confused - why are they laughing at me?
  "Don't look at them, look at-" Mr Hill stops, and glances at my legs. "Bianca, where is your skirt?!"
  "Skirt?" I say, glancing down. I see bare legs, and a hint of panties. I squeak, as I grab my shirt and pull it down. What happened to my skirt?
All the kids in the class burst out laughing.
  "Bianca, this is unacceptable!" snaps Mr Hill.
What happened to my skirt? I was wearing one to school... Did it come off when I was... wait. This is a dream...
  "I must have fallen asleep..." I say,
  "Bianca, what are you talking about? Where is your clothing?"
  "This is a dream," I say.
  "Bianca, please, be serious," says Mr Hill, his face turning red with anger. "This is real, you're not dreaming."
  "I'm not..." I say, glancing around. Some of the kids are taking out their phones to take pictures. Mr Hill looks annoyed, and a little embarrassed.
  "No," says Mr Hill. "If this were a dream, I'd be doing this..."
Mister Hill takes a step closer, and grabs me by the throat.
I grab his hands, and in my fingers his warm hands grow thin and cold, as they tighten around my neck, and I can't breath. I watch as his whole body darkens, and decays into bones, and his clothing deteriorates into wispy blackened rags. His breathing gets heavy and ragged as he becomes the reaper, squeezing my airways shut. No, please, not again... Please! Not again!
I try kicking at the creature, but there's no legs under the wispy, black cloth, and it holds me up by the neck. I grab the bony arms by both wrists, and try to pull them away, but it's like they're made of stone, they won't budge.
My lungs hurt from straining to breathe against my blocked windpipe, and I see my vision fading. I gasp weakly against the choking hands, desperately trying to stay alive... but I can't breathe... I can't...
  "AAAAARGH!" I scream, jumping up from my seat. I put both my hands by my neck - the fingers are gone. I glance around the room, and see that several of the other kids are looking at me, some of them look annoyed, others look scared.
  "Bianca?" asks Mr Hill, turning away from the board. "Are you alright?"
  "Yeah, I'm... I'm alright," I stammer.
  "Are you sure?" asks Mr Hill, walking towards me. "Your eyes... you look like you haven't slept in days, girl."
  "I haven't," I say, honestly.
  "Why don't you head to the nurse's office?" says Mr Hill placing a hand on my shoulder. I flinch at his touch, and take a step back.
  "No, I, uh..." I look at Mr Hill, and his look is one of deep concern. Maybe I should go to the nurse... at least then, I won't fall asleep in his class again. I nod, and say "Okay, yeah."
I pick up my bag, and push in my chair. As I do, I glance out the window.
I don't see any black sheep.

The school nurse said I was showing clear signs of sleep deprivation. I mean, I thought that was obvious after I told her I hadn't slept in four days, so whatever. She also said I should go home and get some sleep, and even gave me a blue slip - a medical exemption - to show to the front office.
I took the slip from her, left the nurse's office, then put it in my pocket and went to the oval to run a few laps. I don't want to go home yet. I might fall asleep again. I want to sleep... God, I really just wish I could sleep, but I don't want to be left on my own. What if I fall asleep, and no one else is around to wake me up? What if I can't breathe, and no one is there?
I keep running laps, around and around, until the bell rings. I finish my twelfth lap, and head for the bubbler to get a drink before heading into the lunch room. I take three gulps of water, and stand up, but as I stand up straight I feel queasy. I put a little pressure on my chest, to try to settle my stomach, but it takes a minute before my guts stop churning. I take a few calming breaths, then pick up my bag from beside the bubblre and head into the lunch room.
As I head for my usual table, I glance at the other kids. I feel anxious, like they're all judging me. I don't want them to laugh at me again... wait, no, that didn't happen. That was a dream.
I sit down at the table, with Ruby and Anna. Ruby is a short girl, but has a big personality, and Anna has these amazing, blonde curls. I don't know where Josie and Ruth are, they usually beat me to the lunch room, but Ed and Ralph are probably getting food from the tuck shop. Boys are obsessed with food.
  "Hey, Anna; Rube," I say, sitting down.
  "Hey, Bee. How are you doing?" asks Anna.
  "Okay, I guess," I say.
  "We heard about what happened in Mister Hill's class," says Ruby. "Are you sure you're okay?"
  "You heard about that?" I ask.
  "Gossip travels fast in small towns," says Anna. "You look tired, love."
  "Olivia asked us what we knew about it, I think she's spreading it," says Ruby. "Seriously, they're saying you screamed at the teacher?"
  "I didn't scream at anyone," I say. "I just fell asleep, and I had a nightmare."
  "Was that the same nightmare as... as before?" asks Anna, leaning forward.
  "Yeah, the one I told you about on Friday."
  "What nightmare?" asks Ruby. "Why's this the first I'm hearing about this?"
  "It was Friday..." says Anna, rolling her eyes. "You were studying Friday lunch."
  "Look, it wasn't a big deal, until now," I say. "But I haven't slept since.
  "You haven't slept since Friday?" says Ruby, shocked. "That's three days."
  "Four days. It started after Thursday night," I explain. "Whenever I try to sleep, I dream about this creature trying to strangle me..."
  "And that's why you screamed at Mister Hill?" says Ruby.
  "I wasn't screaming at him!" I snap. I sigh, and rub my eyes. "I fell asleep, and it came after me again. I woke up, screaming..."
  "Jesus..." says Ruby, looking concerned. "No wonder you can't sleep..."
  "I'm telling you, it's every night-"
  "-G'day, girls," says Ed, moving to sit beside me. "What's up?"
Ralph sits across from him, on the other side of the table.
  "Bee hasn't been sleeping," says Anna.
  "You didn't sleep last night?" asks Ralph, frowning.
  "Last night, or the night before... or before," I say, looking in his eyes. "Four days, now."
He looks at me, and he looks a little shocked seeing my face, and the bags under my eyes. God... how bad must I look? Ralph has a bit of a crush on me, he has since Grade 5. If he's disturbed by my face, I must look like death warmed up...
  "Four days?" says Ed, snickering. "That's nothing... last year, I stayed up for six days, to cram for Miss Crought's Biology test."
Six days? He almost sounds proud of himself...
  "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I say. The others at the table stare at me, but I am glaring at Ed.
  "What?" says Ed, smirking.
  "'I stayed up six days...' Do you think this is a game?"
  "Hey, calm down. I was just sayin'."
  "Just SAYING?!" I yell, standing up. "Don't tell me to calm down - do you think I'm doing this on purpose?! Do you think this is fun for me?"
  "Bianca, he didn't mean it like that?" offers Ralph.
  "Didn't mean..." I slam both my fists into the table. "I can't SLEEP Ed! Do you think I want to stay awake for four nights? Six nights? Ten?! Let's see how much longer Bianca can stay awake until she loses her god-damned mind!"
Ed looks scared down at the table. That's when I realize I'm standing up.
I look around and realize the girls are looking up at me, a mixture of shock and concern. Then I turn around, and see that a few of the other kids are looking over at me as well.
  "This was a bad idea..." I say, rubbing my eyes.
  "Bee, I'm sorry," says Ed.
  "DON'T... Just, don't." I say, stepping out from behind the table.
I grab my bag and head for the lunch room exit. I don't look back. I don't need to see more concerned, judging faces.

I showed the blue slip to the front desk, and went to the bus stop. As I waited at the bus stop, I took my lunch box out of my bag, and bit into the vegemite sandwich Dad made for me. It tasted good, but when I swallowed it, that same queasiness from before came back, and I felt like I was about to throw up. I put my sandwich away, and sat there rubbing my stomach.
After the bus came, I went to sit in my seat, but the queasiness wasn't going away. I had to stand up, because the rattling of the bus felt like it was going to shake the sandwich back up and out of my throat. So, I held onto the passenger strap for the whole ride home.
I can't sleep, and now I can't even eat... how am I supposed to survive if I can't eat?

When I got home, the first thing I did was go to the phone and call Dr Jacobs. I recognize the voice of the receptionist.
  "Hollow Falls Psychiatric, this is Irene. How can I help you today?"
  "I'd like to talk to Dr Jacobs, please. She said I could talk to her?"
  "Of course, can I ask who's calling?"
  "Bianca Wardell."
I hear her humming to herself for a second.
  "Okay, I'll just pop you on hold for a moment, while I go get her."
Immediately, I hear crackly electro-jazz music playing. I grab a kitchen chair, bring it closer to the landline, and sit down as I wait.
The wait probably only takes two minutes, but with my racing heart, and the feeling of half-chewed sandwich sitting in my throat, it feels like hours.
  "Hello, Bianca?" says Dr Jacob's familiar, American accent.
  "Hey, Doctor Jacobs. This is Bianca," I say, with a sigh of relief.
  "Okay, what's the matter?" she asks.
  "I didn't sleep last night," I say. "And I've been... all day, I've been off. I've been seeing sheep. And, I screamed at a teacher, and now I can't keep any food down. Everything I eat, I feel like I'm going to throw up - even water."
  "Okay, it's okay. Have you been doing your meditation?"
  "Yeah, I tried it last night, but it didn't work. I still had a nightmare."
  "Do you remember what I said yesterday? You shouldn't wait until you're panicking before you work on self-care. The trick is to identify triggers before, you panic, and look out for signs within yourself. It's good to meditate throughout the day."
Did she say that? I think she did, but I don't remember...
  "No, I haven't been meditating. I should do that- I'll do that when I hang up. But, Doctor, I can't eat. I don't know what to do."
  "That's probably nausea," she says. "When you don't sleep, it messes up your body chemistry - basically, your stomach is asleep so it's causing indigestion. Make sure you eat bland food - dry toast, crackers, mashed potato. Avoid grease, sugar and spices, they'll just upset your stomach more. And try drinking tea without milk - do you like tea?"
  "Uh, I don't know..." I say.
  "Well, warm tea, no sugar, might settle your stomach. If that doesn't help, you should call a doctor."
  "...aren't you a doctor?" I say.
  "Of course, but I'm a psychologist, honey. You need a G.P. if you have an issue with your digestion."
  "Oh, okay... okay," I say. "But, doctor... I still couldn't sleep."
  "It can take time, Bianca. Your brain is panicking as a reflex, you have to train it to settle, so it doesn't flare up with the drop in cortisol before bed... but you should try to get some sleep now, if you can, okay? Now, I should get back to my other patient, is there anything else?"
She's with another patient? I guess that makes sense, but now I feel bad... I don't want to make someone else wait, just for me.
  "Uh... I don't..." I stammer. "My Dad isn't home yet, and I don't want to sleep..."
  "Why not?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "What if I die in my sleep?" I say. "There's no one to... wake me up."
  "You won't die in your sleep, Bianca," says Dr Jacobs. "You said it yourself, you don't have sleep apnea, you don't even snore. It's all in your head."
  "Okay..." I say. "Okay, I'll try. Goodbye, doctor."
  "Alright, I'll see you for your Thursday session. Bye, Bianca."
Dr Jacobs hangs up the phone, and I stand up.

I find some potato chips in the pantry - original flavour, just salted - and eat them slowly. Each mouthful seems to sit in my throat, threatening to come back up, but after a minute, it seems to go away... it sucks, but at least it doesn't last for as long as it did before.
Then, I head for my room, and sit on the edge of my bed. Dr Jacobs is right, I need to sleep even if I'm alone in the house. It's all in my head... I just need to relax. I put some notes in the dream journal, about how I'm feeling. More tired. More stressed. Nauseous.
I don't bother taking off my school uniform, I just lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. All the lights are off, but the daylight still brightens up my room. I ignore it, and close my eyes. I decide to try some belly breathing... I place my hands on my stomach so my fingers touch, and take a deep breath, pushing with my diaphram, and trying to fill my lungs all the way to the bottom. The full breathe makes my stomach bulge a little so my fingers separate - like Dr Jacobs showed me - then I exhale slowly. With this exercise, you don't have to empty your lungs, you can breathe out normally, which is a little comforting. It's just about getting as much oxygen as you can. When you panic, shallow breathing makes your heart race, so the deep, belly breaths are meant to give you a good dose of oxygen, so your heart can beat slow and easy.
I take three deep, belly-breaths, then place a hand over my heart. It's beating slower. Thump-thump... thump-thump...
I should try some of the grounding exercises she showed me, to calm my mind. There was one she called The Countdown... I need to identify five things I can hear, four I can feel, three I hear, two I smell, one I taste... it's meant to anchor me to the present moment. The taste one is hard, but she said I can think of my favourite food...
One... my ceiling, lit by the sunlight. I sit up in bed.
Two... my dream journal on the table beside my...
Three... three black sheep.
In the doorway of my bedroom, I see sheep, their dark faces looking at me with those fiery, red eyes. I blink my eyes, and rub them, but the sheep are still there. I know I'm hallucinating, sheep don't have glowing eyes like that, but this is a persistent hallucination...
  "Go away," I say. "You're not real..."
One of the sheep is chewing idly as it stares at me, but the other two just stand there. I notice that the one nearest to me has two, dark horns on either side of its face, it must be a ram. I hear one of the sheep behind it snort.
  "I said, go away!" I say, getting out of bed. "You're a hallucination!"
I step closer, I can see the smokey wool on them, and they all look up to follow me with their crimson gaze. I notice some twigs caught in their coats, and dirt on their cloven hooves as I get closer. They look so real...
But no, no, they're not real, how could they have gotten in the house?
I step forward, and push the sheep nearest me - yuck, The wool is warm, and slightly oily in my fingers. Brrehrrr bleats the ram.
  "Get out of my house! - out of my head!" I yell. I move to shove the ram again, but it wrenches its head around, and bites my hand.
  "Aaagh!" I yell out in pain as the teeth dig into my skin.The sheep steps back, and lets go, and I stumble backwards, and trip over.

"Woah!" I call out, throwing my arms out. My hand smacks against my bedside lamp, tipping it over, and I glance around the dark.
  "What?" I mumble, blinking. It's dark, and I'm... I'm in bed? I sit up in bed, and look at the doorway of my room. In the skewed light of my bedside lamp, I can see there's no sheep. It wasn't a hallucination, it was a dream. I sigh, rubbing my eyes. I still feel tired, but it's dark, I must have slept for several hours... That's good, right?
I smile to myself, as I reach over and grab my lamp, turning it back upright. As I squeeze my hand around the stem, my hand hurts. I must have smacked it against the lamp pretty hard.
  "Ouch," I hiss, bringing my hand closer to my face. Sure enough there's a fast-swelling, dark mark on the back of my hand. I feel my whole hand throbbing as I watch as the blood rush under my skin, into an odd, crescent-moon shape. I wonder why it left such a weird mark, but then I see blood drip from my hand, and hear the light pay of blood dripping onto the soft blankets.
  "Oh, damn..." I say, putting my other hand under it. I didn't think it was bleeding. I see more blood drip from my hand. Huh, that's weird, it's not coming from the mark on the back of my hand...
I turn my hand over, and I see a nasty cut on my palm, it's the same shape as the other side, a mirror image, but deep enough to tear the skin. It looks just like a bite mark, just like where the sheep...
No, no, that's impossible, that was a dream.
I watch as a rivulet of blood trickles down my wrist from my upturned palm. But that's impossible... isn't it?

Counting Black Sheep, (Phase 1)

Whenever I shut my eyes, I see my own death. I see the dark figure in wispy cloth, I hear the heavy breathing, and I feel those icy fingers wrap around my throat. For three days now, I haven't slept.
I told my father about it yesterday, and now he's taking me to see a shrink. I don't think I'm crazy, but maybe I am. Most people aren't afraid of going to sleep. I mean, I'm not scared of sleep... not really. I'm scared of dying.

The car pulls off Bell Road into a small carpark in front of a squat, square building. Dad parks the car and switches off the engine.
  "Do you want me to go in with you?" he asks.
  "No, I'll be okay," I say.
  "Are you sure?" he says. Before I can answer, he adds. "I'll be back in an forty minutes."
  "Okay, Dad."
Without taking off his seatbelt, Dad leans over, and wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. I wrap my arms around him, in an awkward, but still comforting side-on hug.
  "You'll be okay," he says, and he kisses the top of my head. By the way he seems to be shaking, I think he's trying to convince himself, more than me.
  "Yeah, Dad," I say.
He lets go, and I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. I head to the front door of the building. I don't look back, but I know Dad is watching me, making sure I go inside. I don't know if it's because he's worried, or because he wants to make sure I actually go inside. I really don't like the idea of talking to a therapist. When Dad suggested it, there was a lot of yelling. Mostly from me.
I open the glass door and head inside the air-conditioned waiting room.
  "Are you Bianca Wardell?" asks the receptionist. It's bright outside, so I blink a few times to focus on the lady in a colourful, floral dress.
  "Yeah," I say, wandering up to the counter. "My Dad booked an appointment for me today?"
  "Yes, Doctor Jacobs is just with another patient, but they'll be done in a minute. Please, take a seat."
The lady nods towards to a comfy-looking, pale blue couch by the door, and I head over to sit down. On the opposite wall, there's some abstract art, and one of those water-coolers with the big, plastic tank on the top. I glance around at the art on the wall. I can't tell what it's supposed to be. Is this some kind of test? Sit the patient down, and if they think they see faces in the art on the walls, they're crazy? Well, I don't see any faces, I just see swipes of paint. I'm not crazy.
I look at the water cooler. There's a soft humming in the waiting room, and I don't know if it's coming from the water cooler, or the air-conditioner. I feel so tired... I sigh and rub my eyes. I wish I could sleep... I hear heavy, ragged breathing. "Bianca..."
I feel cold fingers crawling across my shoulder, and snap my eyes open. The receptionist lets go of my shoulder. "Bianca? The doctor is ready."
  "Did I fall asleep?" I ask, feeling a tightness rising in my chest.
  "Doctor Jacobs will see you now. Room number six, just down the hall," says the receptionist, gesturing behind the front counter.
I take a deep deep breath, trying to slow my beating heart, and stand up.
  "Uh... thanks," I say, and I head down the hall. She has cold fingers... at least, I hope those were her fingers I was feeling, and not the fingers of death.
I head for room six, which is waiting with the door open, and I head inside. The room has a couch in front of the window, with the blinds drawn, some plants in the corners, a filing cabinet near the door, and a desk with a computer and several files. At the desk, in a swivel chair, is sitting a thin, African woman with long, straightened hair wearing a business suit, and with thin, wire-framed glasses prominent on her nose.
  "It's lovely to meet you, Bianca," says the woman, standing and offering me a handshake. "I'm Doctor Jacobs."
She has a soft, American accent. I wonder when she came to Australia from America. I take her handshake, and I'm comforted to note that she has warm hands. She offers me a seat on the couch, and closes the door.
  "So, can you tell me why you're here today?" she asks, as she sits down in the chair once more.
  "I'm not crazy," I say. Doctor Jacobs chuckles.
  "No, you're not crazy. You're here because you want help."
  "I'm here because my Dad thinks I'm crazy."
  "We're not here to judge people. People think that if they say the wrong thing, they'll be declared 'crazy'... but look," Doctor Jacobs opens up the drawers on her desk. "Do you see a stamp labelled 'Crazy'?"
The drawer is full of blank forms, with some scattered pens. I shake my head.
  "It's not my job to judge you," she says, closing the drawers. "It's my job to help you. So tell me, how can I help you?"
  "Well, I... uh, I had a bad dream," I say, with a sigh.
  "Oh? What kind of dream?" asks Doctor Jacobs, leaning closer.
  "I had a nightmare. It was... no, this is stupid," I say, folding my arms.
  "It isn't stupid," says Dr Jacobs.
  "I can't sleep, because I had a bad dream! I sound crazy..."
  "Nobody is calling you crazy," says the doctor. "Nobody except you. But why does it matter if you're crazy? What do you think will happen?"
  "Well, if you're crazy, you're... y'know, crazy. They take you away."
  "Nobody is going to take you away," says Dr Jacobs. "This is my office, and nobody is allowed through that door unless one of us is in danger," she says, gesturing towards the door.
  "Crazy people are dangerous."
  "Are you planning on hurting yourself?" asks the doctor. "Or me?""
  "No."
  "Then nobody is going to take you anywhere that you don't want to go. This is a safe place," she says. "Now, please, tell me about this dream."
I sigh once more, looking into her eyes. She is staring at me, expectantly.
  "It wasn't just a dream. It felt so real..." I say. "I felt like I woke up in this strange bedroom. It was weird, and dark, and I didn't know where I was. The bed was different from mine, one of those ones with four tall posts on the corners. I tried to get out of bed. But, I felt so weak... it's like my body was being held down. I cried out for help, but I couldn't speak, my throat hurt... like I was dehydrated, y'know?"
Dr Jacobs nods, so I continue.
"So, I pulled myself out of the bed, it felt like the blanket weighed a tonne, but I got out, and I fell on the floor, and I was stumbling to get up. I called out again, and when I got to my feet, Death was standing there."
  "Death?" asks Dr Jacobs, frowning.
  "See, I knew you'd think I was crazy..."
  "No, no, what I mean to say is, how did death look? Was this the classical skeleton, with the big... uh..."
  "it didn't have a scythe. It was this shadow - the room was dark, but this thing was like pitch-black, inky black, but I could see, like, a ragged hood over its head, although I couldn't see the face, or skull, underneath. It was wearing wispy, ragged clothing, hanging off it- uh, off of it..."
I glance at the therapist, but she waits patiently for me to continue.
  "Then, uh... that's when it, uh..." I feel my breathing get shallow as I remember the dream. I can still feel its cold, skeletal fingers around my throat. "Then it grabbed me - my neck. It grabbed my neck, and it, uh, it just squeezed, choking me."
  "And that's when you woke up?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "No! No, that's... it, I mean I did, but no... it just kept squeezing, and I could hear it breathing heavily. I was so weak, but I remember, trying to stop it, for like, over a minute. It was strangling me to death. I only woke up when I died."
  "Okay..." says Dr Jacobs. "And you haven't been able to sleep, since?"
  "I've tried," I say. "But every time I try, I see it. It's like it's waiting for me..."
  "Do you think it's real?" asks Dr Jacobs.
The right answer is probably 'no', but... I want to tell her the truth.
  "Yes. I mean... obviously, it's not, right? It's a dream. But, it felt so real."
  "If you know it's a dream, why do you say it's real?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "Because I felt like I was dying," I say.
  "Have you ever felt like that before?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "No," I say.
  "Then, how do you know that you were dying?"
  "Because I couldn't breathe!" I snap.
  "I'm sorry, what I meant is... sometimes, traumatic memories can cause us to have trauma dreams. I wasn't trying to dismiss your words, I simply meant to ask, are you sure that you've never felt like you were choking, or drowning, ever before? Or, ever had anything tight around your throat?"
  "No," I say. "Not until after the dream."
  "And this is the first time you've had this dream?"
  "Yes."
Doctor Jacobs opens a drawer, takes out a form, and places it on the desk.
  "Have you had trouble sleeping before?"
  "No, not at all," I say.
  "And, anyone else in your family?" she asks. I feel a tightness in my chest.
  "Uh, yeah..." I mutter. "My Mum, she died in her sleep. And my grandpa."
  "On your mother's side?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "Yeah," I say. "They just stopped breathing. They said it was sleep apnea."
  "Is that why you can't sleep?"
  "No. I don't have sleep apnea," I say. "My Mum wasn't overweight, and neither was my grandfather. So, when I was ten, Dad took me to a sleep clinic in Darwin, to see if there was something genetic. But, I don't have sleep apnea... I don't even snore. They said there's nothing wrong with me."
  "That's not what I meant. You've lost two members of your family, in their sleep, do you think that's why you can't sleep?"
  "Grandpa died before I was born," I say.
  "And what about your mother?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "That was five years ago," I say.
  "And, did you have trouble sleeping then?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "No..." I say. Then quickly, I add, "I mean, I loved her. I cried. Like, a lot. I still miss her, even today."
  "It's okay," says Dr Jacobs. "I'm not accusing you of anything. People grieve in different ways. But, two people in your family - forgive me - but, they both suffocated in their sleep. Now, you're having dreams where you're being strangled. I don't want to coerce your opinion, so if you think I'm off-base, then please tell me. But, do you think these are connected?"
  "...I don't want them to be," I say.
Dr Jacobs cocks her head to the side, listening. I sigh.
  "Look, they don't know it was sleep apnea, do they? All they know is that she stopped breathing. And when the doctors said my grandfather had sleep apnea, of course they'll chalk that up to family history. But, what if it was something else?"
  "Something like what happened to you?"
  "Yeah..." I say. "I know it sounds crazy."
  "It doesn't sound crazy. I really don't like that word. Is it so crazy to be afraid of dying in your sleep, when two of your famly have in the past."
  "I guess not... but it was just a dream."
  "Dreams can mean a lot. People with P.T.S.D. often relive their trauma; anxious people have anxiety dreams... and if we listen to music, we hear it in our dreams. I'm not suggesting that your dreams are trying to kill you, Bianca, but what if you were having trouble breathing, and your brain conjured up this reaper to try to make sense of it - of this strangulation you were feeling."
  "So, you think I was actually choking in my sleep?"
  "Do you?" she asks.
I rub my hand over my throat. I can vividly remember those, cold bony hands.
  "Yes..."
  "Then, I believe it as well."
  "Alright... so, then, what do I do about it?" I ask.
  "Well, that's up to you," says Dr Jacobs. "What do you want to do about it?"
  "I want it to stop," I say. "I want to be able to sleep again, without this thing creeping up on me."
  "Okay, that's good. It's good to have a clear goal. Is there anything else you'd like to work towards?"
  "No, nothing," I say. "I just want to sleep. I'm so tired..."
  "You said you've been awake for three days, is that right?"
  "Yeah... three days and nights."
  "Have you tried taking sleeping pills?"
  "NO!" I snap, "I don't want to take drugs..."
  "That's okay," says Dr Jacobs. "Like I said, it's up to you. These are your goals, and your decisions to make. If you want to avoid chemical therapy, then I won't prescribe you anything."
  "Okay... sorry," I say, rubbing my eyes. "I don't mean to be so cranky. I'm just tired, that's all..."
  "It's okay," she says. "I understand what you're going through. When I had my son, he cried constantly, and I didn't sleep for eight days. In the first few days, I was grumpy and cruel. After a week, I started hallucinating."
  "Hallucinating?"
  "Oh, yes. Your brain craves sleep. Without it, we can't function, and your mind starts playing tricks on you."
  "And after eleven days, you die," I add, grimly.
  "Eleven days? Who told you that?" asks Dr Jacobs, frowning.
  "I read it on the internet."
  "Well, it's just not true. You will die without sleep, yes; but it can take several months, up to a year," says Dr Jacobs, smirking. "So, if you're afraid that you'll drop dead in a week, well, you can relax. We've got time."
  "Okay... well, that's good to know." I say.
  "Alright then. So, it sounds to me like this fear of dying is keeping you up, because as you drift off, it's triggering a panic response that's snapping you awake again, does that sound like I'm in the right ballpark?"
  "I guess so, yeah," I say, with a shrug.
  "Alright. Now, I know you said you don't want drugs, but I have to ask, have you taken anti-anxiety medication before, or would you give that a go?"
  "No, I don't want drugs," I say.
  "That's okay, there's several methods of dealing with anxiety, drugs are just one of them. For you, why don't we try a combination of meditation, and a dream journal?"
  "Okay, but what's a dream journal?" I ask.
  "Oh, it's a combination of a sleep diary, and a dream report," says Dr Jacobs. She opens the other drawer of her desk, and takes out a small, cheap exercise book. "If you're having bad dreams, writing them out can help you to come to terms with them."
  "But, I'm not sleeping," I say, taking the book from her. "How can I write down my dreams, if I don't have any?"
  "This is also to write down what's keeping you up, when you try to sleep, and what's on your mind. The idea is to work on your sleep hygiene - to identify what's keeping you awake. But, give it time. You might even get a night of sleep before our session next Thursday. Then we can talk about your dreams."
  "Okay," I say, flipping through the little book. I see that she's written headings on the first two pages. Tiredness Level, Time to Bed, Caffeine, Time to Wake... "Wait, did you say 'next Thursday'? Isn't that a little soon?"
  "It's just to monitor your progress. We don't want you going too long without sleep. It can be dangerous."
  "I thought you said it wouldn't kill me in eleven days. It takes months."
  "It does... I'm not worried about you dying, Bianca. But, going for weeks without sleep can make you sick. You'll have problems with your memory, have terrible mood swings, hallucinate, feel nauseous. I'll do everything I can to keep you healthy, and if you ever need me, here" Doctor Jacobs takes one of her cards from her desk, and holds it out to me. "-this is my card. You can call me during business hours. After hours, if there's an emergency or you want to hurt yourself, call Lifeline. Their number is on there as well."
  "Okay, thanks," I say, taking the card.
  "Alright. Now, I'd like to show you a couple of ways to meditate, and hopefully these can help you calm down before bed."
  "Meditate? Isn't that, like, a Buddhist thing?"
  "Not really. Would that bother you?"
  "I dunno. It just seems... I mean, I'm not religious."
  "Religions don't hold a monopoly on meditation. Prayers and chants can be calming, but it's not because of religion, it's because focusing on one thing, helps to clear your mind. Yes, you can meditate on God, or a holy chant; but, you can also focus on something simple, like a campfire... or, you could even count sheep, to try to clear your mind."
  "Count sheep? You want me to count sheep?"
  "It doesn't matter what you focus on, so long as it helps you get to sleep. Counting sheep isn't the best option, but I have a few we can try. These don't all work for everyone, but we'll see what works for you. Does that sound good?"
  "Yeah, I'd like that," I say.
  "Okay," says Dr Jacobs, smiling. "Let's start with some breathing exercises..."

Breathe in slow, count to four; hold your breath, count to five; then breath out slow, count to six. I practiced it more on the car ride home. Dr Jacobs showed me a whole lot of breathing exercises, and that one was the most relaxing. But now, for the moment of truth...
I sit on the edge of my bed, wearing my long, comfy nightshirt. On my bedside table, I have the dream journal that Dr Jacobs gave me. I take out a pen, and fill out the Left page, labelled "Before Sleep". Time to Bed: 9 o'clock. Day Naps: Drifted off in Waiting Room. Caffeine: No. Pre-sleep activity: Wrote in this Journal, About to Meditate. Tiredness Level (0-5): 4. Stress Level (0-5): 4.
There's a space underneath to write what I did that day, but I leave it blank. I don't want to spend too long on this, I just want to see if I can sleep.
I put the dream journal on my bedside table, by the lamp. Dr Jacobs said that it's better to make it totally dark, when I try to sleep, so I switch off the lamp before lying down. I'm staring up at the dark ceiling. I'm not used to sleeping in the dark, but I close my eyes. My eyes are stinging, they hurt from staying awake so long, so I press my head into my pillow, ready to sleep. I still feel a tightness in my chest, so I start meditating.
Breathe in, one... two... three... four.... Hold breathe, one... two... three... four... five...
Breathe out, one... two... three... four... five... six...
Like before, as I breathe out, I feel like my body is deflating, and taking all of the tension out with it. I feel that tightness in my chest loosen.
Breate in, one... two... three... four.... as I hold my breath, I can feel my pulse slowing.
My frantic heart is calming down... Breathe out, one... two... I can feel myself drifting off...
Breathe in, one... two... three... four.... Hold breathe, one... two... three... four... five...
Breathe out, one... two... three... four... five... six...
Breathe in-
I feel a cold hand grasp around my throat. I snap my eyes open, and I see an impossibly black figure looming over me. My empty lungs strain against the fingers, and I grab at my throat, feeling the wrinkled, bony hands, cold like ice and vice-like in their grip, and I hear the ragged, heavy breathing as the thing squeezes tighter and tighter.
No, Stop! Please! I can't Breathe!
The blood is rushing to my head, and I feel like my face is going to explode from the pressure. I reach for the thing's face, but it's arms are longer than mine, so I desperately paw at the things arms. But my vision is getting blurry... the darkness is taking over... I can't... breathe...
I gasp for breathe and sit up in bed.
It got me... it got me again...
  "D... Dad?" I gasp. I can breathe, but I can still feel those fingers around my throat. "Daddy?!"
I call out, but he can't hear me. He's still asleep. I'm all alone... it didn't work. I feel tears welling in my eyes.
  "It didn't work..." I say, burying my head in my hands.
I just want to sleep. Please, just let me sleep... Why won't you let me sleep?! I sniffle, and wipe the tears out of my eyes, gasping from the wetness in my throat.
I switch my bedside light on, and breathe slowly, as I wipe away the tears.
  "Come on, Bianca..." I say to myself. "You're fifteen, this is silly."
I lie back down on my pillow, and take a few more deep breaths.
I consider doing more counted breathing to calm down, but the idea of exhaling all of my breath at once sounds terrifying right now. Okay, no more breathing exercises... Dr Jacobs showed me a few more ways of meditation.
I've tried Counted Breathing. Coherent breathing? No... Belly breathing?
Ugh, why do so many of these have to involve breathing?
I stare up at the ceiling, lit by my bedside lamp, remembering what Dr Jacobs said about focusing your mind. So, as I stare at the ceiling, I imagine a wooden, picket fence... and visualize a cute, fluffy sheep, wandering over, and jumping the fence. One.
I imagine another, identical sheep, wandering over, and jumping. Two.
Then another sheep jumps the fence. Three.
I wonder how many it will take before I drift off to sleep.

I didn't sleep that night. I counted over one thousand, three hundred and twenty sheep before I realized it was past midnight. Then I stopped and just laid there, staring at the ceiling until sunrise. Now, I'm sitting on the school bus, headed for school, staring out the window.
Four days. I've now been four days without sleep. When Dad asked me if I slept this morning, I told him the truth, that I only slept for an hour before I woke up. But, I didn't tell him that I saw the reaper again. I still felt uncomfortable about crying in the middle of the night... I didn't want to tell him I'd called out and he hadn't answered. He already blames himself for being a single-parent, for not being able to save my Mum, I don't want him to blame himself for not saving me...
I stare out the window, trying to give my mind some kind of rest before I get to school. The houses drift by, as we head down the road. I watch the people wandering past, heading to work, or going shopping. I'm sure they all got a good night's sleep last night. Why am I the only one that can't?
The bus comes to an intersection, and stops, and I glance at the people waiting. As I do, I feel something staring at me, two glaring, red eyes on the other side of the street. I blink my weary eyes, and focus on the face looking at me. I can't see who it is, so I blink my eyes, to focus on the person standing under the shelter of a shopfront, but as my eyes focus, I realize that the reason the person looks so dark is because they're coloured completely black. And it's not a person, it looks like a sheep. A black sheep, with two red, glowing eyes on either side of its head. It's standing perfectly still, staring at me. Why is there a sheep in the middle of the Hollow Falls town square? Nobody else seems to be looking at it, but it's standing alone in the side of the road. Its woolly coat is a smokey, grey-black, but its face is as black as coal.
As I watch, I see its jaw move, like it's chewing something, but otherwise, it is perfectly still, staring right at me. I hear the engine of the bus revv, and a car horn from behind us. I flinch at the sound, looking around, then I look back at the sheep. It's still there, staring. As the bus moves, the sheep turns its head to follow the bus - to follow me. I lose it as the oncoming traffic comes the other direction, blocking my view. I sit back in my chair. That was weird, it's like it's eyes were glowing... I've never seen sheep with such red eyes before. I glance out the window again, and everything looks normal. Maybe it was just my imagination.
Or, more likely, it was my mind playing tricks. Four days without sleep...
Doctor Jacobs warned me that I might start hallucinating. Maybe I'm hallucinating sheep? After counting over a thousand of them last night, I must have sheep on the brain. I try to ignore it, but the rest of the ride to school, I can't get it out of my mind. Those staring red eyes, they looked so real. If that was a hallucination, how will I be able to tell what's real, from what isn't?