A/N: This idea for this AU story actually came into my head some time around...I think it was October or November or so. Somewhere around fall, I know that. But, I kind of ignored it, because I wasn't sure if it would be boring or not. I decided to go with this idea anyway, no matter what the big or small number of reviews I might get from this. Because, sometimes, as a writer, you gotta get those ideas out of your head...I'm warning you right now, though, this fic is short in number of chapters but kind of dark.

Disclaimer: I don't own KH.

Chapter 1: 2:47 A.M.

She wakes up in the middle of the night, her eyes roving about the room for the people she is only slightly aware of not being there. It relieves her that this has been just a horrific nightmare that came as the result of snacking too much before bed. Her mom has warned her about that, but she rarely listens. Continuing to sit on her bed, those green eyes of hers wide open, she recalls the extremely dark dream. It portrays a girl who looks like her, only with blonde hair instead of brown. She is talking to some sophisticated older man, who says he's the musician type and looks to be in his early to mid-twenties. And she's also way too easy, Olette thinks with eyes rolling heavenward, what with the way she is dressed.

Soon, after flirting goes on between the music man and the teenage girl (her dream says she's fifteen), he takes her back to his place. That stupid blonde chick's fingers crawl up his arm, soon playing with his brown hair. He looks down at her, smiles, and then distorts into a forty-year-old man. The chick freaks out. He freaks out, realizing what a major pervert he is. Guilt consumes him, the punishing type of guilt that tells him that in his twenties, he was already on thin ice. Now that his age has changed to what it really was to begin with, he's in major trouble. Suddenly, his head grows bigger and bigger as the guilt manifests itself, gnawing him from within.

Blood spurts from him, spraying everywhere on the furniture and the nice wooden interior of his cabin out in the woods while the girl screams. And screams. And screams. And freaking screams until the pitch is way too high, and Olette thinks she is about to go deaf...

Not only had she had too much caffeine, Olette realizes, she has read too many horror books lately. Her taste in literature has darkened compared to what it had been like in her middle school years. Besides, she suffers from this...She thinks it is depression, but she can't be too sure. It is an empty, hollow feeling that gnaws at her much like the guilt gnawed at the poor sucker musician guy. Then again, she reminds herself, she has woken up from a dream that was just too weird. It held no significance, no meaning.

Or did it? God, she just doesn't know, and she shakes her head back and forth, very much ashamed of herself. She feels bad for the musician for some reason, she really does. He was quite handsome in the dream, tall, easygoing, and acted intelligent for a while there. It's almost as if—Olette shudders, feeling the sweat on her skin—she feels for him. Not just bad but...affectionate.

"Oh God," she moans, cradling her face in her hands. "It's just a stupid dream."

And then, she mulls over that maybe her nightmare does signify something after all, though it could mean many things. It could be a sociological viewpoint on how guys like him prefer the stupid girls, because that's what society dictates.

It could mean that lust is punishable if these wicked, wicked thoughts involve someone who happens to lie about his age on the Internet. It could mean that maybe she should automatically choose to be a complete moron. Or just maybe it means that everything she values in a guy would be shot once he blows up in a million bite-sized pieces. Or fun-sized pieces, like the little Snickers Olette has a weakness for. She is being silly, she chides herself, because she needs to lay off the horror and start reading Harry Potter again. That dream frightened her to death, and she hopes tomorrow night it won't be so bad.

Sighing to the point she nearly shudders again, she glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. 2:52, go figure. It has been like this for the past week now, these nightmares troubling her sleep and making her wake up too late...or too early, whichever makes more sense. This hasn't been the first disturbing dream Olette has suffered from nor will it be the last. She can recall all sorts of frights like the chick talking with an oversized mouth, her being sucked down the drain to God knew where, and a TV that refuses to shut off. Each and every one of them plays out like an episode of The Twilight Zone in her mind. Funny thing is, she's only seen clips from the show, considering her overall detestation of it.

Currently, she does it again, shaking her head disbelievingly, back and forth, back and forth. She won't tell anyone about the hollow feeling inside, so she can't be sure if the nightmares are figments of her own crazed mind. Is she even crazy at this point? Surely, depression is one step closer to insanity, just like any other of those mental illnesses she's heard about. Bipolar, schizophrenia, OCD...Hadn't some serial killers developed these types of things? Oh, it disturbs Olette all right, very much so. This is the one part during her day/night when she doesn't feel remotely close to being normal, and that's saying something. Maybe she would stop drinking Mountain Dew (green and red, her preferred flavors) at night.

That way, not only would she feel less fatigue, she would finally be able to pull the "off" switch for good on her twisted nightmares. Falling back restlessly onto her pillow, Olette ponders over the possibility that she's indeed mentally ill. After all, she's a smart girl, so she should be able to understand herself as a person, right? And she doesn't believe in turning to a shrink about this, especially since that seems to be her mom's method of doing things. When in doubt, turn to the trained professional. This is why her parents are in their second year of marriage counseling.

No, talking to a therapist could not help in alleviating the inner turmoil that is raging inside her. Usually, Olette tends to look out for herself—likes it that way, in fact—and she cannot bother or afford to. It's just...How would it help her in the long run? If it's so strictly confidential in those BS sessions, why is it that the shrink has to tell the psychiatrist? And then, it would soon be her popping two pills of Prozac a day. Refusing adamantly to believe in some random cure-all in the form of prescription meds, she resolves to keep this depressing thing or whatever it is (it could be a demon needing exorcised for all she knew) to herself. If it isn't one thing that she has learned from middle school, she is at least keenly aware to keep her mouth shut. She would let words fly out of her mouth.

Now, bleary-eyed and calmer now that she gradually forgets the dream (what did that guy even look like anyway?), Olette aimlessly stares up at the ceiling. White plaster ceiling, white plaster walls—they're all basically paint virgins, untouched by any splash of bright color. Once she thinks about it in more detail, if all the decorations and furniture disappear from her room, it looks like a room in an insane asylum. She's thankful that there is no soft padding or a straitjacket to keep her physically trapped. Maybe she should tell her parents that she wants the walls painted peach, a nice, soft color that would not scream that a crazy person lives here, goes to sleep here, and does homework or whatever here.

It would be nice, she acknowledges as she switches on the blank TV across from her bed, directly next to the bookcase with shelves and shelves of books. Does her vast collection of books make her look more deranged? Does it matter? She needs to get back to sleep, considering tomorrow—well, today—is Wednesday, the middle of the stupid week. Hopefully, she can depend on the TV she's watching on mute to lull her back to sleep devoid of exploding heads of guilt and high-pitched, girlish screams. There is absolutely nothing on at the moment, only an infomercial on the Sleep Number bed.

Olette nearly chuckles in her soft, gentle way, the normal side that the kids from school are lucky enough to see. How ironic.

If the insomniacs are awake at this ungodly hour, she jokes to herself with a lingering smile, won't they be in for a nasty shock? They long for sleep, yet they would watch people on TV (mouths with muted words moving) who get it, supposedly, by buying something off that same TV. Small world.

Her forest green eyes begin to close, and fortunately, the random, almost sick thoughts cease as well. She should start thinking in less detail if she wants to have the semblance of sanity. So, she sleeps without a nightmare...

A/N: As scary as this sounds, the dream Olette has in this chapter is based off of one I had. Just a fair warning: do not drink Mountain Dew and then read Stephen King. That can be a DANGEROUS combo sometimes. Then again, it's the only really out-there, bizarre/scary dream I've had, and I haven't had any since, fortunately. I'm just wondering if maybe the dream actually jump-started this story. But, yeah, that's probably the most disturbing mental image you'll get all throughout the story. I'm not one to write of gore so much. XD

I only wished to write this story, by the way, as a way to venture outside the romance genre. Let's see if I've succeeded, guys.