Outside the warm dark weight was cold. Then the weight took on pilled texture, and the air a musty odor. Awareness of my body blossomed across the mattress.

No, no. Only amateur writers begin their stories with the character waking up. I mentally chided myself.

So I fell back asleep, wallowing in the dark, now confusing and still cold at the edges. She was there, in and amongst everything. It enraged me how intrusive she was, and I became the shaggy beast she cowered from. Scene after scene I chased her away, and still she returned. Just as I shook her limp body in my jaws-

Stabbed. Shot. An eruption of noise and pain and thrashing entanglement of blankets. Then the hard floor, and the eight times I pounded my phone against the floor to make it SHUT UP. Finally it relinquished to my forceful retaliation. Only in the still-ringing silence did I realize I tasted blood. I had bitten the tender flesh inside my cheek. A painful sweeping and metal tang.

Metal. Like a gun.

And the story began.