I awoke mid-melody, only, there was no troubadour, but rather, the Batibat who had transgressed the interior of My ribcage with the caustic clutch of her gargoylian malady.

There she stood, over Me, under My terror-stricken scrutiny.

I was ready to die–ready to become yet another lamb to the slaughter of her barbaric butchery. Yet, unmoving, she seemed uninterested in delivering the kiss of death.

Perhaps a simulacrum of compassion had unintentionally wafted inside her unloving lungs, and settled, albeit temporarily, inside her prefrontal cortex. I had no idea, but I wasn't going to try and figure it out then and there.

With a shaking and discombobulated bravery, I lifted Myself up to My feet and slowly backed away from her presence, backed away from the almost-memory of My coup de grâce. Mercy was in My corner that day.