The scene was hazy and the details were missing, but it was a memory familiar to Gershwin. It was the prompt story she wrote for Dr. Jiang-Ping. She remembered that it was supposed to have a dilemma with a dog between his stick and his life. The story went on as usual; the dog struggled to get his stick while the bird warned him otherwise. Insisting that the dog could do it, he persisted. He then fell into the raging river, as expected.

Except... the bird never rescued the dog. In fact, the bird laughed at its misery. Up and down did the dog's head bob, his vision blurred with the water hurting his eyes and rushing into his noses and throat. The water was cold and it froze his lung muscles. Air was rushing out and the dog could not breathe any more air in. In turn, his panic gasps for air made him swallow water, and it was now worsening for him. He was deep in the rushing waters, and his vision had black dots from oxygen deprivation. He was dying, but the rapids would not allow him the luxury of a peaceful death. The water fell downwards, and sharp jagged rocks littered the waterbed. The first rock broke his left front leg, and the second one sliced his underside. His entrails spooled out of him, and the waters were dyed a dark brick red. 

The dog kept bleeding, so much so that the water no longer had its clear transparency, and was now a river of blood so thick and hot it seemed to boil. The dog's head emerged one last time, and next to him, another dog's head, then another. Soon, every bit of surface had a bobbing dog's head at the top. There must have been millions. 

Then the scene became clear, and it was not a dog after all. 

It was her.

[hr]

Out from her coma, Gershwin sprung upwards, screaming into the air. She fell to the floor, ice cold to the touch, and rushed to the door, banging it hard with her fists. It started to hurt her.