<em>The fading light behind her in a hallway that lead to a door. She was intimidated. Exiting the hallway. Penny found herself among hundreds of Native Americans. No, white folk dressed as Native Americans. They were sacrificing some one. They were sacrificing Penny. The intimidation turned to horror. Her hands were bound. The music was louder than it should have been. No one could hear her cries. Even if they did, she got the subtle inclination that they wouldn't stop. Her feet were in heels, red heels, she had a flowing white dress. Her toes were dragging across the dirt. She kicked in rebellion. The Altar had found her. The 'Natives' danced for hours. In that time, they had made her naked. A priest had appeared, obviously Catholic. The time had come. She closed her eyes to avoid the pain. She knew, but she could not feel an abundance of long blades pierce through every side of her torso.</em><br/><br/>Her bedroom was far too quiet as she woke up. She was shivering from the night-terror. Her family used to wake her up well before she had made it to the Altar. Things had changed now. Her mother had gone mostly deaf at the age of fifty-eight. Her father had departed years ago, and most of her siblings were too old to live at home. She had a younger brother who didn't care about her, and he spent most of his time near the radio on the other side of the house.<br/><br/>Penny had started to leave her door open at night. Still no one, could hear her shouting in her sleep. It was the reality of the situation.<br/><br/>Her night-gown felt like it had been left out all night, covered in sweat. She felt inhuman in her skin. The clock on her dresser showed 8:17. She needed a long shower.<br/><br/>Penny had soaked her hands and feet in warm water as her mother brushed her hair. Niether of them had ever worked a day in their lives. The main constant in Penny's short life had been guilty leisure. For no pleasure was pure in this house. The two of them didn't speak of anything vital. Penny didn't want to talk of her dream. Maintaining her fingernails was a much more productive activity. Her shower was cleansing, and although her mind was fresh on the idea of being stabbed to death, her body had calmed down, and it realized it was indeed, safe. The adrenaline had been filtered away. They had ended up involved in a conversation over the qualities of cotton and polyester towels.<br/><br/>Penny's small breakfast was ready by the time she was dressed.<br/><br/>Her pale skin was covered in a black and white polka-dot one piece. It was all cotton, it felt like the corset off of a fancy dress. Penny covered that with a design of clothing that was a couple years ahead of it's time. A mod style jumpsuit- one piece short sleeved-short shorts-blouse combination. It was checkered in red blue and yellow. Penny had a black leather watch that she had worn every day for over four years, except for one day this March, the battery had run out, and she couldn't afford to replace ti right away. Going out with her legs so exposed felt funny. Especially without technically wearing any underwear. She packed a small bag with an extra change of clothes, and a towel. Her hair was down as her mother called her downstairs for breakfast. She was about to sit down in front of the mirror to fix it.<br/><br/>She was completely alone in the house if not for her hearing-impaired mother. Breakfast was more quiet than her manicure. It was yogurt and oatmeal with a 24 ounce glass of orange juice. Penny only finished the juice.<br/><br/>She covered herself with a red sweater. Her socks came up to her knees, and her shoes were red flats. She would be riding her bike to the river, and heels were no good at that. Out of the door at about a quarter passed nine, she felt like she was right on time. She had an ironic thought as she pedaled toward the Potter St. Grocer.<em>'Nightmares are good for waking you up sometimes.</em>'<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Penny's bike rattled as it moved, the ball bearings were fresh, it sounded like a firm leak in a hose. She pedaled slowly, moving at just over ten miles an hour. She was going to be late now that she had stopped by the grocer for lunch. That was the deal, Penny brought the picnic, it was a pleasant job. Mr. Wagner, the owner of the grocery store was always polite to Penny, he was touchy with her, and she pretended not to care. He would guide her down the isles with his hand on the small of her back, his large fingers around her tiny hand. He treated her like a small child, and although she was fairly sure that the old man was harmless. She trusted him a little bit less every time she went into the shop.<br/><br/>A large picnic basket sat on her handle bars safely as she whirred through a corn field in it's infant stages. The sprouts were only three feet off of the ground, Penny looked like a ghost, vehicle hidden by the brush. She was closer to the Meadow than most every one else in the group, especially if she took the short cut through the corn field. She pedaled slowly through the loose dry dirt. It was strenuous, to keep balance in such forgiving soil. Penny could handle it, but not without working up a sweat. Her blonde hair danced on her shoulders, lifted by the wind every now and then. It occurred to her now that she had forgotten to braid it again.<br/><br/>Through the cornfield, then a small path through the woods, and Penny zipped out, into the meadow. The ground was easy to pedal over, and she suddenly picked up speed. The picnic basket was a simple woven tub, but the handle was intricate, and her table clothe was starting to dance with her in the wind. A gold and blue checkered pattern started to whip at her waist. She slowed down in a blur of colors and stopped as nearly as she could to her,<em>'rather large,'</em>group of friends.<strong> "Good morning!"</strong>she shouted, a natural tone escaped her throat. She was a wonderful singer. She had sounded like a bell-chime from an old crafted clock.