Disclaimer: The Pretender isn't mine.
Breathing would be excellent right about now. If only it hadn't become such an unaccountably difficult thing to do. He should focus. That was one slow, tortuous pull of oxygen into his aching lungs. That was one slow, tortuous push of remnants out of them. There. That was one complete breath. He would get through this. He just had to keep breathing. It would be fine. It had to be. There was no other option but to make it fine. He couldn't change the situation. He had run up against a brick wall, and it was one of his own construction.
No.
No, that wasn't right. It wasn't his fault. It had been an accident. You couldn't foresee accidents. It had happened to him before. Accidents happened all the time. There had been that plane crash, and there had been . . . He was sure there were others. He would be able to come up with other examples if only he could think. Accidents happened. People got hurt. People died. It wasn't anything he could do anything about. He should be thinking of other things.
The sun was shining today. It was so bright he was tempted to squint even behind the protection of his sunglasses. There were no visible clouds. The sky was clear and beautiful. He should be enjoying that sky. He liked sunlight. It was warm and comfortable and it felt so undeniably, permanently real. He should be enjoying the sun. He should be enjoying the day.
Yes, he should enjoy it because it was beautiful. You shouldn't waste beautiful moments when you had them. He shouldn't be standing here staring across the well-kept expanse of grass that he was never going to cross. It was wonderful to be alive and out in the world. He didn't need to actually enter this place to pay his respects. He could do that from anywhere. The place didn't matter. They were likely to be watching here. It wasn't a safe place to be, yet he wasn't quite ready to leave it. It was peaceful here, and it somehow reminded him that it was wonderful to be free. It was wonderful to choose where he would or wouldn't go. It was wonderful to know that he would never again have to watch over his shoulder for her.
No!
No, no, no! That's not what he was thinking. That's not what he was feeling. It wasn't like that. It wasn't. He was very sad about the . . . accident.
Really? Was he?
He was, of course. He was.
He was sad, but maybe he was also just the tiniest bit relieved? There was nothing wrong with that. It was natural to feel a little more at ease with one less person in the world chasing him. He would never have to have his precious childhood memories tarnished by the reality of the present again. He never had to live through those disappointments again. There was one less tie holding him to a place to which he wished there were no ties. It was one less tie that he wasn't completely sure he could stand breaking if it had to be done. He didn't have to wonder any longer if he really had the strength to do it. He would never have to sit and ponder if it was cowardice that kept him tethered - a cowardice that wouldn't allow himself to chance a world completely devoid of the familiar. He felt lighter now - like a burden he hadn't realized he was carrying had been lifted off his shoulders. It felt nice.
No!
He didn't feel nice. He felt sad. It was sad. It was an accident, and it was sad. He only felt sad. There was no reason to feel guilty because it was only an accident.
Was it?
It was. They all said it was.
Yes, the Centre always tells the truth.
Lyle said it was.
Does that even deserve the dignity of a response?
Her father says it was.
And he's never protected Lyle before?
She was his daughter.
The one he ignored and manipulated by turns? The one he never bothered to care about while she was with him? I'm sure she's much more important to him after she is gone. Keep telling yourself what you want to hear. Maybe eventually you'll believe it. Just like they do.
There's nothing to believe. It wasn't my fault.
And, yet, she's dead. You did always say she spent too much time visiting cemeteries. That's all fixed now. She's got all the time in the world, and she's not a visitor any longer. You do love fixing things, don't you?
I didn't do anything. I didn't. I couldn't have known.
You couldn't have known what? That Lyle was unstable? That Lyle was dangerous? That locking her in a shipping container with him had the potential to end badly? What was it that you didn't know? That all mighty, all powerful you could miscalculate, could get things wrong? Or was it wrong? Did it really work out the way you wanted all along?
I only wanted to get her out of the . . .
Out of the way? You got what you wanted.
I didn't!
He threw himself forward into a sitting position on the bed and began trying to suck air through a throat that felt too tight to let it come past the constriction. It was dark in this place that was his room for the moment, and it was quiet except for the sounds he himself was making. The pounding of his pulse echoed in his ears far more loudly than any exterior sound could hope to match. The bed sheets were tangled so tightly around his legs that they felt as though a straight jacket had been fashioned for his lower half.
It was just a dream. It was only a bad dream. He had plenty of those. They were his normal sleeping pattern. This was nothing different. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was going to go wrong. There was nothing wrong with his plan. It was only a dream. He would go ahead with everything just as he had planned it. There was no need to make changes. It was ridiculous to think about changes just because he was overreacting to a dream. It was ridiculous to begin with that he was this worked up over a dream. It didn't matter how many times he had dreamed it. He needed to let it go. He just needed to calm down.
He should focus. That was one slow, tortuous pull of oxygen into his aching lungs. That was one slow, tortuous push of remnants out of them. There. That was one complete breath. He would get through this. He just had to keep breathing. It would be fine. It had to be.