A.N. These characters are not mine.


The Nightmare

(The sequel to 'His Waking Life')

Chapter One

October 15, 2004 - Brooklyn, New York

This is a story about deep psychological torment. About slipping away into the darkness.

It all came to pass in the autumn of 2004 on an unremarkable October day. Initially, the morning had passed without notice - and then it all came unraveled when he finally found himself back at his modest Brooklyn apartment. There was a voice message left on his machine . . .

Upon reflection, the slow downturn could be traced back to the start of a new year. Just less than a month after Robert O. Goren had finally managed to find a modicum of peace. Before the turn of the new year, contentment had come in small victories: having Alexandra Eames back as his partner post-materntiy leave; a quiet, private Christmas celebration with his mother outside of the Carmel Ridge setting; and his gift exchange with Eames: he was quite happy with her reaction to the Monet print, and in turn, he was uniquely touched by the iconic pendant (a family relic) she'd given him.

But by mid-January, he was soon to discover that his hard earned 'grace period of inner-contentment' was merely the calm before the storm.


January 2004 - One Police Plaza

It came at a time when he and Eames were embroiled in a case that defied logic: a string of robberies with victims who claimed that they were coerced by a third party. The latest vic barely made it past the bank's doors before a homemade bomb abruptly ended his life.

Goren and Eames were fresh off the trail when Deakins motioned them into his office.

"The jury just came in," Deakins was seated behind his desk, the phone receiver held snug to his left ear.

Upon reflection, Goren could only remember small details about that moment: Eames dressed in a warm red blazer, her face emblazoned with hope, her tongue sharp as ever, "I hope Nicole likes the scones at Bedford prison."

Goren suppressed a smile, while unconsciously kneading his leather notepad cover like a cat.

And upon further reflection, that small second in time (before Deakins announced the verdict) was the turning point. After which, feelings of contentment, peace and hopefulness began to be quickly replaced by confusion, fear and intense negative catastrophic thinking. It was as if the light-switch had been personally fingered by Nicole Wallace, and she was only too obliging to reignite his obsessive compulsive personality disorder.

"Okay, thanks," Deakins expression remained serious as he placed the receiver down, cautiously rising from his chair, "Not guilty on all counts."

This is where Goren's memory was essentially erased. He remembered turning away from Deakins, towards Eames, their eyes made contact for a brief second before he continued to turn towards the door. Then there was utter silence, as if his brain shut down all sensorial information. His nose flared, his fingers dug into the notepad, his pulse quickened and he felt the intense need to run, pace, scream . . . only to re-discover that the exit of his captain's office opened into the throng of his colleagues busily working at and around their desks. There was no escape, no place for reaction, lest he prove once again that he was the unstable departmental whack-job.

He remembered how Eames subtly guided him back on track, back to the case on hand, back to the bar long after most of his fellow officers deserted the eleventh floor.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Eames muttered after she placed another empty glass against the hard bar countertop, "what money can buy."

"Eames," he spoke quietly, looking away from her to hide a grimace, "we, uh, we did what we could, you testified . . ."

"Bullshit," Eames fired off to no one in particular, "I'll take another, Jimmy," she motioned loosely to the bartender.

"Come on," he spoke gently, "you've, uh . . . we've had enough."

"Not nearly enough," Eames squinted, focusing on holding his gaze, "don't pretend that I don't know what this is doing to you."

He lowered his eyelids to avoid her piercing soft brown irises.

"And don't think for a second," Eames shook her head stiffly, "that I don't understand the implications of this bullshit verdict."

He was immediately thankful for the distraction of the delivery of Eames' umpteenth drink, "No, Jimmy," he placed down several twenties, "we're good here, she's done."

With that, they hobbled out into another cold January evening and hailed a cab.

"You take it," he chewed tentatively at his lower lip, afraid she was going to let him have it for quietly escorting her out of the bar.

She turned into him, her face suddenly transformed from radiating anger to immediate concern, "are you going to be okay?"

He nodded his head, "Are you safe to get into your place?"

She nodded, "I'll see you maƱana."

And with that, the yellow cab crept off into the concrete jungle, while he found himself alone near the curb, his frozen breath his only company.

Chronically short on cash, (which was the other reason he lead Eames off into the first cab), he knew he could still make it home on public transport.


October 15, 2004 - Brooklyn, New York

But that was over nine months ago, and now, as he sat down heavily into his well used armchair, he felt like he was finally at the threshold of true panic. She was back. He'd taken something from her and now she (Nicole) was ready to take something back from him. She'd finally found his Achilles heel . . . and now he was left alone to come to the uncomfortable realization that the tables had turned, and it was his turn to be the prey.