"So, what are you going to do now that everyone knows?'' she
asked him.
"Face them, I guess. Not much more I can do now", he
answered.
"True". Playfully, she added, "That, or kill yourself...''
Sheila got no response from Harry on that last remark. A
splash of blood on her dress shocked her to an
understanding. The whistling trees were whistling from more
than mere wind. A bullet had managed to pierce itself beyond
the trees, beyond two shattered windows, and through Harry's
heart. Sheila rushed to Harry's side and held him closely,
the only thing standing between him and the hard impact with
the broadening abyss below. Suddenly, Sheila's grip with the
floor failed. She and Harry got sucked into the abyss,
falling and falling, faster and faster, till the whistling
wind became hundreds, thousands, of little bullets hitting
at their helpless forms. The land opened its mouth and
prepared to swallow them both whole, when Sheila forced her
eyes open --
Heart beating rapidly, irregularly, Sheila sat up and took a
courageous look around her. Bed, window (whole), closet,
Harry... She knew where she was. Safe, and familiar. She
took a few deep breaths, and got up. Harry's dark flat
wasn't familiar enough that she was able to find the light
switches. However, it was recognizable enough, and small
enough, for her to reach the bathroom without too much
trouble. The flushing toilet sounded like a lion's roar in
the silent apartment, and gave her a nice fright. On the way
back to the bedroom, she stopped at the kitchen and filled
herself a glass of water. Gulping it down in mere seconds,
she realized how dehydrated she was, and drank a couple more
glasses. Back in bed, she looked at Harry. The dream's vibe
still hadn't left her. She ran a soft hand over his chest,
above his heart, and gave him a gentle kiss. With a sigh,
she crawled back under the covers and turned to her side,
waiting for sleep to summon her.
Now, when she analyzes this dream, she understands it, of
course. Then, though, she chose not to dwell over the
meaning. She wrote it down in one of her countless diaries
and let it slide into brackets at the back of her mind.

The next morning, Sheila woke to an empty bed.