It's just a dream.
She forced her eyes open again and she was in the same place. Standing in the middle of the empty street.
It's just a dream.
In front of the cafe in London. No cars or people in sight.
It's just a dream.
Everything was quiet and still aside from her frantic breath, chest heaving, and the rain beating down on her blonde head and open toed shoes.
It's just a dream.
Her eyes focused on the same image. Her father, Richard, lying in a pool of blood on the street, alone. He writhed in pain, one hand on the gunshot wounds in his chest, and the other was extended in mid-air. He was pointing right at her, mouth moving, trying to form a sentence. But he still wouldn't look at her. Why didn't he ever look at her?
She opened her mouth to say, "Daddy," to get his attention like when she was a child, but nothing came out. Tears flooded the corners of her dark, blue eyes. She couldn't move, couldn't call out, couldn't help him. Very much like that day six years ago, she was helpless. Only on that day, she had been inside a taxi, watching, palms pressed against the grungy window.
Why hadn't she screamed at the cabbie to stop? Tell him that was her father out there bleeding to death. She should have kicked and shoved and pounded on the back of the driver's seat until the brakes squealed. Why did she lie and tell him her stop was around the corner?
They were probably watching and would have killed her next - that's why - she thought. And her father's words kept running through her mind like a tape on repeat. That's why he said them after all - to prepare her for something like this. He knew the day was coming. That his violent death was inevitable.
Her eyes squeezed shut again. The rain pattered onto her bare shoulder, so hard that it actually stung.
"If there's ever any trouble, Chloe, run. I don't care what's happened to me. Get out alive, my darling. Run and find somewhere safe. There's always somewhere safe. Understand?" He asked, both hands on her small shoulders.
But that was a lie. There was never a safe place for someone like Chloe. Not in the family that she grew up in. From the outside they appeared normal. Happy and well-adjusted. The perfect picture of an upper class family living in the best homes, driving the best cars, eating in the finest restaurants. But in actuality, no one was ever safe if they had the Dorchester name. It was the equivalent of a moving target.
Click.
There it was. She didn't want to open her eyes again, but she did, only because she knew what was coming next. In the real world, she would know what to do in this situation. She was able to take care of herself physically and otherwise due to life experiences beyond her control, but in this dream, she was always unable. Paralyzed. And that angered her more than anything.
The silver barrel of the gun was pointed right between her eyes, only inches from her face. The man holding it was faceless, but there was something imposing and dark and frightening about him. She guessed this was how she imagined them, whomever they were, and a part of her never wanted to know who or what this man was.
There was only one thing she knew for sure. He was the one, or one of the ones, who had killed her father, leaving him alone to die in the street. Eight gunshot wounds in the chest, one in his kneecap. Cold. Dead. Buried. Forever. They had taken him from her too soon. She was his daughter, his only child, and he had no idea who she was. Not really.
Click.
The gun cocked slowly. Chloe gasped for breath and for the strength to finally do something about it.
No. It's only a dream. Just wake up. None of this is real. And she would wake up…
…as soon as he pulled the trigger.
But he never did. He lowered the gun, turned, and walked away. Oh, this was one of those dreams, she thought, and felt her body relax a bit. At least the ending to this version was different. It was the one where she turned around and found herself standing on his doorstep in Amsterdam, peering inside his apartment, as he stood there staring back at her. He exhaled with relief, not surprised to see her in the least. He had been waiting.
The muscular, dark haired Brit covered with tattoos leaned against the doorframe, arms at his sides. "They're after you." He said knowingly. And he knew better than anyone.
Chloe nodded, water dripping from the ends of her hair. Even though this memory occurred days after the murder, she was still wet and freezing. Funny how dreams worked. He reached out and touched the side of her face - one of the only times she remembered him being gentle about anything - eyes scanning her for noticeable injuries. "You alright, love?" He asked in a low tone and glanced over her shoulder into the hall.
She didn't answer and before she knew it her knees had given way and she allowed herself to collapse into his broad chest. "They… they…"
He shushed her and stroked the back of her hair. "I know what they did. I heard. I know, C."
"They killed him, Eames. They killed him." Chloe choked back sobs and clutched the fabric of his black t-shirt.
And then he pulled her inside and shut the door.
That's when she woke up.