She does not want him to sleep tonight. All too well, she knows what the night will bring them, because now it is them and not simply him that suffers the nightmares. She, too, knows them, because she will wake as he moans in his sleep, cries out, and it will be she who will lie with him as he shakes, stroking his arm, whispering to him, holding him until the fear fades back into the recesses of darkness. They are less frequent, now, but they still come, and when they do, she aches immensely for him.

Tonight, she knows, the nightmares will come with a vengeance. Eighteen years ago on this night came the first, and they both know that his ghosts will come to remind him on this most painful of anniversaries.

She lets sleep come, knowing it will not last, but exhausted. In loving him, she now carries his demons as well, and they are heavy. She allows her eyes to close, his arms hugging her close to his warmth, and she drifts off to await the inevitable.


When she wakes, the rays of morning startle her. The nightmares have not come, because, surely, she would have woken up. She glances down to confirm that his arms still wrap around her, and smiles to see not only his arms around her, but a the small arms of a child tangled among the sheets as well, the covers nearly engulfing him. So they have survived the night. She pulls his arm more tightly around her waist and drifts off, once again.

When she wakes again, it is to the sounds of clattering dishes and shouts. She buries her nose in the pillow and inhales, the soft scent of clean hair lingering from where he's slept. She glances to the clock.

There is no clock.

There is no nightstand.

There is a wooden floor and an antique dresser and a large, oak trunk that stands in the corner.

This is not her house.

She stifles a scream as she looks wildly about, scanning for anything familiar. There is nothing. Nothing she knows, nothing she's ever seen before. And yet she can smell him everywhere. He has been here, wherever here is. She tries to call out for him, voice failing her.

More shouts echo from somewhere in the house, and then his voice. She knows his voice. She runs towards it, blindly, heart racing in her chest. Down a hall she's never seen. Into a kitchen she does not know. And there he stands, at a stove she doesn't own.

With two children.

Two children that are not hers.

Had the child in the bed…? No, that had been Joe. It had been her son. She is sure of this, that the child had been her flesh.

"Mama!" One of the children, a girl, turns to face her, face bright and she comes towards Abby with open arms. Abby backs away, breathing hard, flattening herself to the wall. The girl stops. "Mama, what's wrong?"

"I…" Abby draws in a sharp breath.

It isn't right. This isn't right. She is dreaming.

The child is calling her "Mama."

The child whose dark eyes and curls she knows from the photo, even faded as it is. She knows this child.

Jasna.

Turning, she dashes down the hallway once again, to the bed where she'd woken up, looking around for anything that might wake her from this nightmare.

She is in his nightmare.

She sinks to the floor, head spinning. Bile rises in her throat. She needs desperately to wake up. The dream – the nightmare – is too real.

Footsteps precede his appearance, but she knows them as well as she knows anything. Luka frowns at her from the doorway. "What's wrong?"

She looks at him with fear in her eyes, scrambling back against the bed. She wants to touch him, but she is afraid.

He inspects her again, as he does when she is awake, when she doesn't feel well. She doesn't feel well, now.

"Tell me what's wrong."

She shakes her head, unsure of her voice. "Luka?"

"I'm right here. What's wrong?"

"I…I'm not awake."

He shakes his head slowly. "You are. You're awake. You're having a panic attack, I think. Just breathe with me, just like we did with Marko."

With Marko.

The bile rises again. "No…no, he's Joe, Luka. Joe."

"Who is Joe?"

She swallows and then she understands. Her voice wavers dangerously. "Who am I, Luka?"

His brows knit together. "My wife. You're my wife."

She shakes her head. "No. My name, Luka. What's my name?"

"Danijela. Your name is Danijela."

Everything is black now.