"She's conscious."

She was strapped to the table, arms and legs spread eagled, naked. The wrists and ankles were held down by metal brackets nailed into the table √ the metal chafed at her flesh, scouring angry wounds and purple bruises. She was bathed in oil, blood, and gore, and thicker parts of humans that were best left unmentioned. The combined smells of the oil and blood made her nauseous.

Her face was gaunt, the eye sockets hollow, her forehead bore a reversed cross. The room around her was empty, but she could see eyes √ feel them watching her. One such pair, one she was sure she recognized, stood at her feet, watching and waiting. She fought to breathe, but struggled against hyperventilation as she tried to comprehend what was going on around her.

Her face, body, and sex ached √ when she tried to open her mouth, the sides protested fiercely, having been cut on the left side to exaggerate the opening. Her body bore similar marks, all only on the left side, numbers and letters and words that held no meaning for her; only her vulva had been cut open wide as if to provide room for something.

Whether that something was going in or out was easily answered √ her womb swelled hugely, taut as a balloon.

A shudder of pain ripped through her again √ she moaned, disregarding the pain that was brought on by the separation of her lips. The contractions started again, but she couldn't move. She wanted to wrap herself around the pain, to smother it, to put herself into a fetal pose like that of her seemingly unborn child. But the metal brackets held fast and allowed no movement.

Then she screamed as the contractions suddenly picked up speed, almost like a ripple through her muscles. Whatever it was growing inside of her had started to move outwards, pushing through the birth canal with a deep ferocity; using claws, or was it teeth? Something sharp and metal was churning its way out of her. The screams choked off her air, choked off sound, but all she could hear was static, the dead air that seemed to float out of her mouth despite the shrieks that were emanating from her voice box.

And then the pain stopped, but she ached. Her body throbbed, though not in pain, but in intense pleasure that bordered on pain; her muscles screamed in ecstasy and her belly fell flat as whatever had been within her was removed by sure hands that belonged to the eyes at her feet. Her own grey blue eyes, half lidded in the absurdity of it all, could barely discern the shadows that had begun to detach themselves from the darkness surrounding the table she was laying on.

Finally, everything ceased. Dead silence ruled over the scene as the thing that had crawled out of her was turned to look at what had birthed it. She rolled her eyes open, her head being tilted enough to see what it was...

And she screamed.

"Rose! Rosemary! Rose!" Charlie shook the still-sleeping blonde woman next to him carefully, pulling her into his arms as she continued to flail against unseen bonds. Whatever the nightmare was, it had entangled her fully and she refused to wake - or perhaps the opposite, she wanted to wake, but whatever kept her prisoner baited her with that simple freedom. She screamed again, and he struggled to hush her before someone called the superintendent.

"Rosemary, wake up! Wake up! It's just a nightmare, a nightmare, wake up!" His voice was a harsh whisper, struggling to convey the message through her ear into her brain where she might understand. Slowly, she began to quiet, and her eyes opened - two stone-like eyes in that pale face - and she struggled to understand who was holding her.

"Charlie?" She whispered and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"You had another nightmare, Rose. Have you been taking your medication?" She looked confused for a moment, as if trying to remember what color the ceiling was.

"Rose, have you been taking your medication that the psychiatrist prescribed?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

Charlie sighed, again, this time in frustration. He would be an old man far sooner than he expected if she kept up this kind of game. She would be the death of both of them if she didn't deal with the demons that tormented her in her sleep.

"I don't...take them because they make me sleep. And if I sleep, I see them."

"Who, Rose?"

"I don't know. But they do things to me, and...it hurts."

Charlie laid Rosemary back on the bed, and laid down next to her. Taking her in the crook of his arm, he settled his chin on the top of her head.

"Rose, you need to sleep. Tomorrow I'll call the doctor and see what we can do about these dreams."

"Nightmares. They're not dreams...they're nightmares." But Charlie was already fast asleep, exhausted from work and dealing with Rose's condition. She lay in the bed, nestled in the crook of his arm √ his scent kept her awake, kept her sane. Turning over the events of the nightmare in her mind, she struggled to understand what it meant. The only detail that returned to her in full was those eyes √ blue eyes, seemingly kind, but intent. Desperately intent.

Like Walter's eyes...