He had that dream again.
The one where they were walking hand and hand on the beach while little Charlotte was running just ahead with a tiny shovel and sand bucket to collect her "treasures" in. Treasures, that's what Charlottes called the pretty stones and occasional sea shells that she scooped up. Squealing with delight when she found a dried star fish to add to her collection.
He could hear the sound of the surf, his little girl's giggles, feel the light breeze, the noon day sun and the soft skin of Angela's hand in his and he was content. He wanted to things to stay this way forever.
Then the familiar panic started. He knew what was coming next: the blood, the screams and the endless pain.
A grown up Charlotte suddenly appeared in front of him.
"It doesn't have to be this way you know, Dad. Let yourself be free, we're dead, you don't have to be too."
"This is new." he thought in surprise. He was afraid to feel relief just yet, perhaps it would turn into the familiar nightmare soon after all.
Then things quickly changed again. He found himself in the CBI office sitting on his couch, watching the team go about their working day. He felt like a fly on the wall, no one noticed him, it was as if he was invisible.
"I am dreaming." He said to himself, trying to gain control of his dream state.
He walked over to Teresa's office, funny, he never thought of her as Lisbon when he was dreaming. When he looked in she was working at her desk while Patrick Jane was sleeping on her couch. Teresa glanced over at his resting form from time to time, with an expression of worry on her face and a small sigh. He felt like he could see into her soul; not just into her past and present, but her future too. He watched as the room seemed to move through time. The same scene playing out but just different days, weeks, months and finally years. Ad all that time, Teresa was there, waiting for him, supporting him, patient and good. He saw her get older and he saw the light in her eyes start to dim as she gave up all of her last bits of hope to him.
Patrick woke up with a start surrounded by darkness and the sounds of his laboured breathing. While he was relieved that he hadn't woken up screaming as he sometimes did, he was disquieted nonetheless. Lisbon has been wasting the best years of her life on him, on his revenge. Dear God, what was wrong with him? What had he been doing to her for the past ten years? What had he done to himself?
He felt a tear trickle down his face. He was surprised to realize that he was weeping. As he lay below the image painted in blood he resolved to fix this.
"I need to stop this. It's killing me and I'm killing her."