The dream (or was it a memory?) seemed to be on repeat in her mind. "Sorry sweetie, it looks like Daddy isn't coming home!" a large man, in his mid-twenties, very buff, (body-guard?) said as he slung her over his shoulder, and carried her out of her big empty house, and to the car. "NO!" she screamed, kicking and punching the man with all her might, "PUT ME DOWN! And what do you mean 'Daddy isn't coming home'?! I demand an explanation. WHERE THE HELL IS MY DAD!" The man shoved her into the tiny black car, and got into the passenger's side. She continued with her screaming and demanding to be let go until the driver turned around and said, "Your Dad is in a better place, now, SHUT THE HELL UP!" "Gone to a better place... You mean he's…" she whispered and stared out the window. No. No way. He isn't dead. There's no possible WAY he is dead. Her eyes began to tear up. She kicked the driver's seat, and they swerved into a lamp-post. "TELL ME!" she screamed. When there was no response, she peeked at the driver. He was long gone. Hair, matted with red goo, and a shard of glass imbedded into his chest.
She bolted up right, screaming, and awakening from her terrible dream. She turned towards the door, and stared at the two men at the entrance to the flat. "Oh no oh no oh noo" she whispered as she scrambled to her feet, looking for an exit. Eventually coming to the conclusion that there was no escape, and sank back down into the couch, putting her head in her hands avoiding the eyes of the men.
"Please don't kill me, oh god PLEASE don't let them kill me. Just let me go, oh PLEASE please please!" she prayed silently. Eventually she looked up, to see the two men still standing in the doorway, staring at her. She nervously fidgeted with her hair, "Uh…um… hi?" She eventually said, still trying to avoid eye contact. The shorter man spoke first, "Uh, hi. Yes what are you doing in our flat?!" she stared at the dusty, uneven, wooden floorboards. Sitting in silence. Then the taller man spoke up, "Okay, since you won't tell us that, tell us your name" She sat there for a moment, trying to decide if she should use a fake name or not. She decided not. "My name… my name is Ivy." she lifted her head, and now looked at the men. They both had on button down Polos and dress pants, obviously went somewhere nice, (on a date?) The aroma of garlic lingered with them, and the short one had some spaghetti sauce on his sleeve. "Did you have a nice, Italian lunch date?" Ivy asked, giggling to herself. "We're not a- wait! How did you know that?!" the short one demanded. Then looked at the tall one and asked, "Is she… is she like you Sherlock?" Sherlock! Yes! That was his name. How could she have forgotten?! And the other is John! She sighed and flipped herself over [to where her feet were now resting on top of the couch, and her head was hanging off the seat]. Her hair looked as if someone spilled an inkwell on to the floor. "Yeah Sherlock, am I like you? Am I extraordinary? Or am I boring and ordinary?" she stared at him, waiting for an answer. She had asked herself this question many times and quite frankly, she wasn't sure.
