I'm standing at the edge of a cliff. The wind is blowing in my hair and my robes are rivuletting behind me, whipping in the wind. All of a sudden, I am falling, falling quickly towards the jagged rocks below. But, I do not fall onto them. I fall right through them, past them, deep into the ocean.

The water is all around me and I can taste the salt on my tongue. I have no trouble breathing because I do not require to. The water does not shrivel my fingers and toes, but I can still feel the modest current and gentle doldrums against my face. But, I cannot swim, and I soon sink right to the bottom, my body as heavy as lead.

The bottom is not solid, and I slide right through it. I am on the ceiling. On the ceiling of a place I have only seen once before. Buffy is now there. And now lots of kids are arriving, some of whom I recognise, some I do not, or at least I do not remember. I am horizontally pressed against the ceiling. I can feel the ridges of the tiles against my back. My body is still as heavy as lead, but still I cannot move.

Suddenly the teacher is here. But she is not old enough to be the teacher. She does not look much older than me. She has long blonde hair like Buffy's, but her complexion is much paler. She is dressed all in black.

"Class," she says, "Repeat after me: 3-7-0"

"3-7-0", the class choruses in unison.

"3-7-0", the girl continues.

"3-7-0", the class repeats.

The process is repeating. But somehow, it is melting away into the background; phasing out and becoming hazy, harder to see and easier to overlook. Because it is less important.

Now there is a girl. She is much younger than everyone else. I have never met her, yet I know who she is. It is on the tip of my tongue. She is saying something, but I can hardly hear. She is prancing around the classroom, but they do not see her. She is moving amongst them; through them. Now she is directly underneath me. I can just make out what she is saying.

"Curds and Whey," she says, the sparkle in her eyes dancing like a mischevious pixie. "Curds and Whey."

She sways innocently back and forth. How sweet she is. I must protect her. I must. And then there is another. This one is evil. She is trying to kill Little Ms. Muffet. She is evil. I must protect the girl. I must. But I cannot move. I am stiff and I am powerless. The young girl is being killed. She writhes in pain, and then cries out to me: "Help me, Faith! Help me!"

But her voice is not hers. I know the voice. The voice is my mother. I am now no longer in the classroom. I am four-years old and I am standing in a doorway in my nightie. There is a smell about. The kind of smell that reminds me of my childhood. But I am not concerned with the smell. I am more concerned with what is happening to my mother.

"Help me!" she screams.

A man is holding her. He is pushing her down on to the floor. He is touching her and trying to be with her. Her screams become more desperate, more pleading. But he strikes her, and she is silent, aside from her low whimpering. She just looks at me. She looks at me as if to say 'Why aren't you doing anything?' The man would kill me. I know this because the man is father. He would do the same to me - and worse. He always does when he is drunk.

I want to wake up now. I don't think I like this dream anymore.