Wake to Dream, page 3
A single tap of his pen. "We should discuss something else. Your waking life, for instance. You told me you went home after your sister disappeared. What do you remember of that?"
Shaking the terror from her thoughts, she bunched up in her seat, her bent legs pulled tightly to her chest, caged by arms that were trembling. "Not much. I can't seem to settle my thoughts on anything, any one event. It's as if the memories have been shaken up and scattered, bits and pieces that come through the haze to slowly reveal themselves."
"Give me one. I don't need specifics such as date or time. Maybe if we record them all, we can put them in some proper order."
Thinking back, she pushed through the horrifying myriad of emotions and images, tugging at strands that led to specific thoughts until one in particular came to mind.
"The media is a bastard. Do you realize that? They glutton themselves on the cruelty of monsters; feed on the same fear and pain as the ones who directly cause it." She laughed, the sound more cynical than humorous. "And nine times out of ten, they're wrong."
Anger escaping her on a staggered breath, she lowered her forehead to her knees.
...drip...
"Tell me what you remember."
"I was forced to watch the news broadcasts about the abduction -"
"Forced?"
Looking at him, her eyes traced the worried line of his brow. "It's everywhere, you know? On every station. You can flip through the channels and get a different set of facts - all of them theories - none of them correct. Not really."
Ignoring the misdirection of her rambling, he led her back to the topic he wanted to discuss. "Who forced you?"
Swallowing past the knot of fear that clogged her throat proved difficult. For all the attempts, she gained nothing but aching fire in the sensitive, parched flesh. There was nothing left to do but give up and let the knot choke her, give up like she’d done so many times already in her life.
"Who, Alice?"
Their eyes met when she glanced at him from behind a tangled curtain of unwashed hair.
"Everybody."
"Would you like something to drink?"
Calm, collected, even kind, the voice broke through the sticky film of darkness across Alice's senses.
A dream. It was just a dream.
She wanted to refuse, but her throat was as gritty as coarse sandpaper. "Depends on what you're offering."
Her candor took the stranger by surprise, if his silence was any true indication of his reaction.
"Water," he answered after a span of silent seconds. There was no inflection in his voice, no anger or loss of control in response to Alice's behavior.
Nodding her head in acceptance of the water proved difficult. Alice was sluggish and uncoordinated. But the jostled movement had been enough.
Chair legs scraped against the floor, the rhythmic thud of shoes against the ground announcing the man's approach. The joints in his knees clicked when he knelt down in front of her, betraying either his age or the length of time he'd been sitting motionless in the chair.
With a face masked in shadow thick enough to conceal his features, he held a plastic bottle of water between them.
Alice's efforts of accepting the bottle were thwarted by a weakness in her arms, a remnant of whatever drug she'd been given.
"I would have sworn it would only take a few hours for you to recover." His head angled to the side, the length of his dark hair brushing his shoulder. "Apparently not."
"Max," she muttered.
His face was still concealed behind shadow, but she recognized the hair. She'd admired it when they met, but lost track until now.
How had she gotten here? Where was here? And why was he with her?
Reality crashed into the nightmare. Worlds colliding for no understood reason.
Maybe it wasn't a dream, after all.
"Are we in the Vic-" Her words felt scrambled, but she forced the question. "The Vic-" Shaking her head slowly, she had to get the question out. "The house I'm selling?"
"No," was his simple answer.
"Then where?" Her throat closed on the question, her body coming to life as the drugs eased off, but still revolting into spasms, the muscles learning how to function as they once had.
"You walked through a door, Alice."
Settling himself on the concrete at her feet, he studied her silently before adding, "and now you're here."
After uncapping the bottle, he grabbed her chin, sliding his thumb along her bottom lip before pulling her mouth open. The lip of the bottle met her mouth, tilting up to pour cool water over her tongue as he said, "Swallow."
Alice didn't trust the contents of the bottle, but the liquid slid down her throat anyway, a soothing balm against the burning flesh, and she swallowed fervently, greedily, until only a few drops were left.
Pulling it from her lips, Max recapped it and tossed it to the side, the plastic ricocheting off a wall that only existed in Alice's peripheral vision.
Her head fell back against a wall, a thick blanket of silence sliding between them until his smooth, deep voice broke it apart completely.
"I have something I'm going to show you." He paused, looking Alice over with a critical eye. "You can't walk. I'm going to carry you."
Terror should have filled her, but familiarity had bred acceptance. She knew this man. He'd presented as someone she'd easily converse with in a public setting. One that, despite the disfiguring scar, would be pulled into the fold of the respectable and admired.
This was not the type of monster that lurked in the shadowy realm of her dreams.
"Did I fall?"
It wasn't until her words echoed back to her from the walls of the empty, desolate room that she knew she'd spoken them aloud.
"No." A grunt escaped his lips, his strong body lifting her from the floor. Heat was thick across his skin, uncomfortably so.
Caged against what felt like cushioned steel, Alice’s heart jackhammered beneath her ribs. Fear crept in, the threat of death seducing her into compliance despite her desire to fight his hold.
It's wrong...it's all wrong.
His steps were labored over the cement floor, his thick leather boots creaking with every small movement of his ankle; the sounds amplified by the pervasive moments of silence that came between.
Reaching a second level, Alice clenched her eyes shut against the onslaught of bright, white light that bathed the room. She opened her mouth to question him about where they were, but speech failed her, the words thick on the tip of her tongue.
As if sensing her struggle to fill the deafening silence, Max spoke, relieving her of that small part of her anxiety.
"I'll give you time to regain your strength. We'll need to discuss why you're here."
Kneeling down by a couch, Max dropped her weight on the cushions, keeping his eyes on her while busying his hands with something outside of Alice's field of view.
He stepped away after climbing back to his feet and crossed through into another room, disappearing from sight.
Widening her eyes and narrowing them again in a futile attempt to focus her vision, Alice curled up on the couch, her movements slow and delayed, but becoming stronger as time wore on. Minutes passed, each one returning to her some portion of her senses, some better functioning of her arms, head or legs.
The room was the same style as the Victorian she was selling, but rather than the state of decay of that house, this room was meticulously cared for, the wood gleaming in the light cast by ornate, overhead chandeliers. A warm glow bathed the room, a rainbow of muted colors glimmering from the sunlight shining through stained glass windows.
Elegant furniture was placed about the room, the types and colors of the textiles used blurring in her vision so much so that she couldn't quite make out the luxury of the interior design.
Eventually, Alice regained the ability to sit up. The room stopped spinning. Sound was no longer muffled and disjointed.
Panic set in when her mind cleared. Alice didn't recognize the room in which she was sitting, and there was a noticeable heaviness on her ankle. Logically, she knew better than to look down at that cold heaviness on her skin. Once she saw what she expected to see, she couldn't return to the belief that anything about this strange situation was normal.
However, every instinct in her, every knee jerk reaction, forced her head down and her eyes wide, terror coursing through her veins at the sight of light flashing off the dull, silver metal of the leg iron locked above her foot.
She screamed, her voice hoarse as a result of the drugs from which she was still recovering. Max entered the room, his footsteps measured, his expression horrifyingly neutral; he wasn't affected at all by her fear.
Her screams died off and he grinned.
"Welcome home, Alice."
12:30 p.m.
Gray walls.
Black table.
Plastic, fake red roses.
Everything in place.
"Alice? ... Ms. Beaumont? ... Alice Beaumont ..."
"Yes, Doctor."
Five steps across the room, three steps over the soft, patterned carpet. Four cushions. A white throw draped loosely over the armrest.
"That was quite a story you told me in our last session, Alice. What would you like to talk to me about today?"
She didn't remember sitting down, couldn't recall when the weight came off her feet, or when she crossed one leg over the other, tucking both beneath her.
"What?"
Her eyes sought out the doctor, his face concealed in shadow cast by the direction of the soft, ambient lighting in the room.
"You shared with me the dream you had about the owner of the house you were selling." He paused, tapping his pen against the pad of paper in his lap. Glancing up, he shook his head just barely.
"I have to admit I'm somewhat confused how the dream has anything to do with your sister...or your current emotional state."
Alice laughed. "Is that a nice way of calling me crazy?"
"No," he answered, his tone serious and devoid of the humor she'd attempted to interject into the conversation. "Are you feeling okay, Alice? You're more scattered than normal. I thought you were improving with the medication."
Alice was scattered, her thoughts like puzzle pieces tossed haphazardly about that would never again fit together. "The dream had everything to do with my sister," she argued, ignoring his attempt to draw the subject of their discussion away from the dreams. "Don't you see it, Doc? The phone call, and then -"
"Then what? The imagination is a finicky thing, Alice. I believe every mental process is tied together, conscious and subconscious. Perhaps if we can construct the pieces of your real life - if we can improve your waking memory - we can understand why your subconscious is flooding you with these images and ideas."
Twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her eyes locked on the skin turning white from lack of blood flow. "I like to think it's a psychic connection. Delilah is communicating with me. She's telling me what's happening to her."
With another tap of his pen, the doctor straightened his posture where he sat. His movement was sharp, dignified, but quiet so it wouldn’t startle her. He leaned forward until she looked at him, but somehow still managed to keep his face obscured by shadow. "Like twin communication? Is Delilah your twin?"
A simple shrug was followed by Alice's weak voice. "Might as well have been, we look just alike."
"Are you Delilah? Are you making up this sibling in your head to protect yourself from something that frightens you?"
Her eyes shot to his face, tracing the cut of his jaw before moving up in an effort to see the features concealed by the lack of bright light. "That's ridiculous."
"You've never told me about your family. Nothing substantive, at least. I have theories about what is most likely occurring with you. Tell me about your family, about events that happened before the day your sister disappeared."
Ignoring his request, she laughed. "Theories." The word fell from her lips with disbelief weaved into the two syllables. "I have theories, too. You just don't want to hear about them."
"You have dreams."
Her body tensed, the movement a full shudder that ran through her bones. "What makes your theories more important than my dreams?"
He paused, the silence between them birthing other sounds in the room. The ticking of a clock. The sound of dripping water from that damn bathroom faucet.
"My theories are based in science. Your dreams -"
Mimicking his earlier words, Alice argued, "Science is a finicky thing, Doc." When he didn't respond, she admitted, "and if I were Delilah, I wouldn't be here."
"Where would you be?"
"Trapped in that damn house. Where else?"
His voice was no longer soft or soothing when he asked, "Are you saying you believe the owner of the house you were selling has taken your sister? Do you honestly believe that your dreams are so accurate that you know where she can be found?"
"No," she confessed. Shaking her head, she slapped away the strands of hair that fell in front of her eyes. "That's not what I'm saying." Her voice trailed off, reality shifting again to a point where she didn't know how much time had passed since she'd last spoken.
Breathing out a sigh, she acknowledged his accusations. "If you don't believe I have a sister, you can check the news. Her name was everywhere at one point in time."
"At what time?"
"I don't know," she admitted.
Two more taps of his pen and he relaxed against his seat, his attention fixed on her.
The tick of the clock filled the silence. The faucet continued to drip.
"If I listen to your dream this afternoon, do I have your agreement that you'll listen to my theories during our next session?"
She wasn't sure she could make that agreement. She never knew when the fog of confusion would swallow her whole. But what other choice did she have? She needed to understand the dreams, and the doctor was her only hope.
"I agree," she managed to lie.
A simple nod of his head. With his pen poised over paper to record and dissect the lurid details, the doctor gave her his rapt attention, waiting to explore her hidden and prophetic world.
A thin, black shirt did very little to disguise the fit body beneath. Shadows traced lines of corded muscle, the cloth stretched over shoulders too broad for such delicate fabric.
Dark linen pants wrapped around thin hips, traveling lower to bulge out over thick, solid thighs. Max's booted feet were set at shoulder width where he stood motionless and silent.
When he cocked his head to the side, the thick wave of his black hair dusted his shoulders, the obsidian depth of color drawing the eye to his face half marred by scarring that could only have been left by fire.
Even with the disfigurement, his features were captivating and haunted.
"I'm sorry it had to come to this."
Alice swallowed, the lump thick and sticky, barely sliding down her throat enough for her to speak through parched and cracked lips. "To what?"
Taking one step forward, he braced himself from moving closer, his eyes darting around the room before settling back on her face. Alice’s thoughts were cloudy, perhaps lending to the odd feeling that he was fighting his desire to approach.
"The use of drugs is unfair and barbaric. I realize that. Technically, it's just as bad as a caveman knocking a woman over the head with a club." He paused, his facial features tightening as he winced as some unspoken thought. "But you wouldn't stop screaming. I just wanted it to be quiet, you know? Homes should be quiet."
The room came into focus, but light played in through the windows casting an ethereal glow. Dust motes sparkled in the diffuse streams of morning, amber illumination lending a hazy quality to the room.
I'm dreaming, she thought. It’s nothing more than my imagination.
The thought helped ease the quivering fear in her heart. What was more: it gave her strength and a touch of bravery she believed impossible had this scene been true reality.
"You can't hurt me," she said, the statement matter of fact and without question.
Eyes narrowed in response to her words, he answered, "That's not my intent, but accidents happen." His tone was regretful. It piqued her curiosity, but not enough to question him.
"You're not real," she insisted. Attempting to sit up, she felt sluggish, but it wasn't the crippling boneless feeling from before. Her body ached, her tongue swollen and thick, but despite that, she found the ability to speak. "How can you hurt me when you don't exist?"
His head cocked to the side, his features focused in such a way that Alice wondered if he'd understood what she'd said. Were her words more garbled than she thought?
She didn't have to wonder long.
"I'm not a ghost, Alice. Not yet, at least." His steps were loud against the wood floor, his hand warm where it caressed her tear stained cheek. "Do you feel me? Am I cold?"
"Just a dream," she insisted.
He smiled. "In a way, yes. But not in this way."
Silence fell between them, the susurration of his skin sliding down her face as loud as a jet engine in her head.
"You're so beautiful. Just as I knew you would be. We'll get you dressed...get you ready for your new life. You'll shine, Alice. It'll be what you always wanted. An escape from the life that has done nothing but hurt you. Even in dreams, you could never escape."
But this was a dream. Was her conscious thought bleeding into her nightmares? Was she waking up while still remaining asleep?
Her brows pulled together, confusion saddling her until the air was ice against her skin. Glancing down, she ignored the way he stroked her hair, her breath hitching in her chest to find her body unclothed.
"You didn't suffer," he whispered. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
Tears burned her eyes, understanding weighing her down even more than the lasting effects of the drugs he claimed he'd used. "Did you...?" Sobs choked her voice, rendering her silent.
As if the explanation would excuse the abuse, he spoke to her softly. "You were so cold. I was trying to keep you warm. There was so much vomit that I couldn't clean it up, and then you were cold. If it means anything, I fought to resist. But you begged. As soon as I saw the mess you made of yourself, you begged."
