Sarah was nothing if not dutiful. At least since her exposure to 'that place'. After the night where The Dream assailed her all the way to its finish, she never, ever failed to take her pills.
"So how has it been working out for you?" a feminine voice asked. Sarah's head shot up out of its reverie.
"Hmm?" she replied lamely.
"The pills?" the therapist asked.
"Oh," she said, fumbling with the handle of her bag. She shoved it roughly between herself and the side of the Victorian wing chair. She hated that chair. She felt it loomed over her, leered at her, like….
She frowned.
"They've been working fine," she continued with a smile.
"No bad dreams?" the woman queried with a lift of her brows. Sarah could hear the trace of skepticism in her voice and actively strove not to grind her teeth.
"No bad dreams," she replied sweetly. Perhaps it was a little too sweet. She didn't want to give the whole show away.
Her bad dreams had stopped, but it had been at a price. The price was not dreaming at all, and as she felt herself a creative person at heart, she felt that maybe it was almost worth the nightmares to have all the other, good dreams back. An image of her red-soaked hands flashed across her mind then, and of his face, his unnaturally pale countenance with those narrowed eyes, marred by her bloody handprint, almost like a caress…
"Miss Williams?" the therapist asked in a helpful tone.
Sarah's grip on her purse strap was iron as she saw her hand trace across his cheek, smear down his neck, and finally his chest. His fine tunic…she had ruined it.
"Miss Williams," the woman said more insistently. Sarah blinked and nearly jumped.
"Yes?" she said, clearing her throat.
"Are you alright?" she asked, trying to discretely take notes without taking her eyes off of her patient.
Sarah nodded and plastered on a big, fake smile. "Yes, I'm sorry. I was just thinking of…everything I have to do today, and I guess I zoned out."
The therapist smiled back. "Do you have a lot on your schedule? Let's talk about it…"
—
It was another half hour before she was finally able to escape. She wasn't sure what bothered her more- the feigned small-talk or the presumption that she was fine with taking pills for the rest of her life.
It can't continue on like this, she thought to herself. I need to either figure out why my brain won't let me forget about all that, or I need to force it to. It had been 12 years, though, and she felt that if her mind hadn't figured it out at this point, it was impossible.
She sighed, and slowed her pace as she bounded down the busy city sidewalk. She was headed home, but she didn't want to go. She didn't want to go home, but she didn't know where else she could possibly go. As she turned into her neighborhood, a large neon sign that veritably belted out "HAPPY HOUR" with the amount of color and electricity it employed caused her to stop in her tracks. Why not?
Walking over, she saw an arrow helpfully pointing down to a descending staircase, and she gingerly pushed in the splintering entrance door. She looked around as the it clattered shut behind her, taking the last of the real light with it. It was a dank establishment- owing in good part, Sarah reasoned, to being in a basement. Patrons were few despite it being time for the daily specials, when suddenly, like something out of a film, everyone in the bar simultaneously stopped and turned to look at her. Sarah's face grew taught and she timidly gave a rather awkward wave. Then, like it never happened, everyone resumed what they'd been previously doing.
Sarah had no idea how to handle what just happened, and embarrassed by her own stupid reaction, decided it was best to ignore the whole incident entirely and slowly made her way up to the bar. She rested her bag on the counter, and when the barkeep turned in her direction, he looked at it rather than her. Sarah frowned, looking from the bag to the man and back again before it dawned on her.
"Oh, sorry," she mumbled, pulling it off the pristinely waxed surface.
"S'alright," he mumbled back. "You'll learn. What'll it be?"
Sarah raised her brows. "Oh. Bourbon and Dr. Pepper?"
The barkeep glanced up at her raising a brow before nodding and attending to her request. Drink in hand, she made her way over to what seemed like a nice, quiet corner table, despite the majority of the tables being wholly unoccupied. She took a sip of the drink from the straw helpfully provided for her and did her best not to make a face. It was strong. This barkeep meant business.
Deciding she needed it, she took another sip, and then another, before finally sitting back to properly observe the room. The place seemed cliché enough- old tiled floor scattered with a smattering of round tables, the back containing a lone and rather ratty-looking pool table where most of the sparse patrons' attentions seemed to be focused. The bar stretched nearly the length of the place, proudly displaying its vast collection of bottles and their sparkling contents as the bartender endlessly polished his pristine counter.
She took another few sips until the straw hit rock bottom and a rather unflattering slurping sound overtook the low drone of a corner TV set that served as the background noise of the place. The bartender, like an animal suddenly overcome by instinct, made his way over and silently replaced her drink.
"Thank you," she replied timidly. He walked off without a word. She took a couple sips from her fresh drink and sighed. She might as well try and be productive. Digging through her bag, she pulled out a large notebook, filled with article ideas and half-finished pieces. So affected was she by what happened when she was fifteen that, despite feeling an overwhelming sense of renewed purpose and optimism immediately afterwards, it seemed everything she did was cursed once the dreams started. Acting became impossible- she could never remember any lines outside of those contained in her little book "The Labyrinth", and she found herself on more than one occasion running screaming from the stage during school plays for reasons she could never ever remember afterwards. Despite numerous attempts to try and figure out the problem, it came to no avail, and she was now Sarah the Reporter. At least her ability to write hadn't left her.
The bar took on a kind of peacefulness for her after awhile as she went over page after page of her notebook. Because the dreams had come back in full force until she finally acquiesced to those awful pills the other night, her work had significantly suffered. Her dreams were always why she could never seem to catch a promotion. Every time, the excuses given always seemed to fringe on her health- she looked too tired, they didn't want to over-work her, they needed someone they could call up at any hour without any trouble, etc. They never mentioned her failing productivity compared to her coworkers. Sarah told herself that it was because in the end, her quality of writing always made up for it.
She had made it three-fourths of the way through the pages in relative silence when a large group of men swung open the door to the bar and bounded inside. Sarah looked up and tried to push herself further into the shadows. Taking another sip of her drink, she noticed her glass was full again. When had it been replaced? Come to think of it, what number was she even on?
The men collected their beers and began to congregate around the tables close to her. She tensed, hoping that maybe they just wouldn't see her. She watched in perfect stillness as they took several swigs from their mugs, conversing loudly and giving each other hearty pats on the back as they laughed. What time was it? She looked down at her wrist and panic shot through her- her watch was nowhere to be found.
She'd had enough. Slowly she pulled her open notebook to her and began to carefully put it back into her bag when, just as their conversation hit a lull, the corner of the cover snagged a pocket of her purse and her keys clattered loudly to the bottom. She winced.
"Well, well, well…." she heard a voice say. Sarah's adrenaline spiked and the words she knew were undoubtedly directed at her seemed very, very far away. "What do we have here?" he continued.
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed heavily. Her anxiety warred with her cynicism. This really is the most cliché place I've ever stepped foot in.
Pausing briefly, she decided quickly to continue as if no one had spoken to her and finished putting her notebook into her purse. As she turned her head to lean over, it swam viciously, addled with alcohol and adrenaline, but she was determined to not let it show.
"Looks like the little lady came by herself," she heard another male voice say. The group of men laughed.
"Leave her be, Mike," she heard the barkeep's voice say. "She's not interested in you folks."
She heard the squeak of the wooden chair as the man maneuvered himself to reply back. "Aw, Hank, we don't know that for sure, though, do we?"
"Mike…" the barkeep tried, in a warning tone.
Sarah rose to her feet, clutching her bag, and stepped around to the wall, trying desperately to control the spinning room around her so she could make a quick, confident bee-line to the door. The one known as Mike rose to his feet and blocked her path.
"Hey there, sugar," he said. Sarah gritted her teeth- he sounded like he was speaking to a child. "Why the rush all the sudden?"
Sarah looked up and instantly regretted it. Mike was a big man, pock-marked face, and he grinned down at her lecherously as she rested her hand on the opening of her bag.
"No rush at all, Mike. Just ready to go home."
The man's brows shot up in surprise. "You hear that, guys?" he said over his shoulder. "She already knows my name. And we haven't even been properly introduced yet."
Sarah took his distraction as an opportunity to get around him, but he quickly whipped back around and blocked her path.
"You can't leave yet!" he cried, holding out his arms. "You know my name- you gotta tell me yours now."
Sarah stared at the floor. "It's only fair," he continued. She could feel him inching closer to her. Sarah tried to hold her ground, but when he got close enough to where she could feel the heat radiate off of him, she instinctively shuffled a pace back.
"Please…" she mumbled. "I'd just like to leave, if it's alright." The knuckles on her left hand blanched clenching her purse strap as her right carefully groped for access to the inside of her bag.
"No way! We've just gotten to know each other….what was it?" he asked amicably, but then his eyes turned dark. "Your name," he demanded, taking another step towards her.
"Now, Mike—" the sharp voice of the bartender rang out. "Leave her be, and I'll get you another drink. What'll it be?"
Sarah glanced around the room from beneath her lashes and noticed all of the man's companions stifling laughter while the guys around the pool table, looking a bit more like they may be on her side, gripped their pool sticks and took slow steps towards them. At least, she hoped they were on her side. Sarah's hand in her bag hit upon something cold and metallic, and carefully she wrapped her fingers around it. She'd been told over and over again that the city had been dangerous, that she should arm herself somehow. Simply in an effort to placate her father, she purchased a folding knife even though she knew it went against everything he stood for to suggest it to her. "But it is how it is, these days, Sarah. And if you insist on moving there, well…..surviving is more important."
His words rang through her ears as her eyes betrayed her by slowly reaching her concealed hand. Mike's eyes snapped to Sarah's purse.
"Hey— what's in there?!" he shouted, and lunged for her. She leapt back, but it wasn't far enough. The last thing she heard was the scratching of the wooden chairs on the tile floor as his hands clenched around her throat and she was shoved hard against the concrete wall. Sarah struggled to take in a breath, but Mike seemed to have done this sort of thing before- his thumbs pressed perfectly on her trachea, and she could feel her coordination failing between the lack of oxygen and the amount of booze in her system. Her hands gripped the knife inside her purse as she struggled to get it out. Suddenly, she felt the pressure dissipate. Her vision was a mess but it was enough to see Mike being pulled away by each arm by the guys from the pool table, but it had been too late. There, in his abdomen, protruded a shining four-inch knife, and as Mike was pulled off it, the blood flowed out of the wound and onto Sarah's hands which held the blade in a death-grip. The whole scene seemed to slow as she felt it slice through more layers of flesh, widening the wound, as he was pulled away, and the stream of blood spilled out onto her as her eyes stared in shock- a puddle of the fluid quickly gaining ground all over the barroom floor.
Sarah knew there were shouts but she couldn't hear them. She fell to her knees, and as her eyes stared into nothing she could sense them laying him down now, sense hands holding the gaping wound. She sat there on her knees, completely forgotten, and as she looked down at her hands, it slammed into her- Just like the dream, just like the dream…
Her breathing picked up. She was losing control. "I can't panic!" she tried to scream to herself, but it was useless. Her breathing became so rapid that it was the opposite of breathing. Still clutching the knife out in front of her, she tried to rise to her feet and failed, her foot slipping, slamming her knee into the tile and causing her leg to slide into the pool of blood, nearly knocking her into it face-first as she tried to recover her balance.
Her mouth opened, she screamed, but no sound came out. Her movements became frantic as she finally let go of the knife and pulled herself to her feet. She scrambled for the door when a voice cut through the din.
"HEY! Where do you think you're going?! Murderer!"
Sarah dived for the door handle and tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. She heard the cries calling after her, the accusations, the shouts at the man as he apparently slipped away from life, and she shook the handle as violently as she could to try and escape.
"You can't run!" they screamed, and several of the men gathered around her now. Tears streamed down her face, and as she went to wipe them away, it left a trail of blood over her eye going down to her jaw. Oh my god. She blinked her eye rapidly, trying to regain vision. There is blood in my eye. There is BLOOD IN MY EYES!
As they closed in on her, she felt anxiety so intense that she thought if they didn't kill her, her emotions certainly would. As she closed her eyes, trying to prepare herself for whatever was to come, she felt an arm wrap itself across her shoulders from behind and a voice prickling at her ear as she was pulled down and away.
"Even if you avert your eyes, Sarah….I forgive you everything."
She gasped, and her eyes opened wide.
She saw round tables, scattered around a dark and dank bar as they had looked from her spot in the corner, and a white apron standing over her.
"Hey…hey miss," said a gruff voice. Sarah's eyes snapped up to see the bartender hovering over her. "You can't sleep here. Gotta go home and do that."
"What?" she asked, her face contorting in confusion. She raised a hand to her face, but hesitated and quickly pulled it away again. She stared at her fingers, her skin. Nothing. Nothing but her own hand.
Sarah groped into her bag, pulled out her wallet, and without a word shoved two twenties across the table, pulled herself around the surprised figure of the barkeep, and slammed herself into the front door as she opened it, barreling up the stairs and into the cool city night.
Her head swam, but not as badly as it had before, and looking at her wristwatch noticed it was nearly midnight. Shit.
She pulled her jacket around herself and held her bag close as she walked rapidly past the slower, meandering crowd, some of whom gave her strange looks she never once looked up to notice. Finally, as if inevitable, her heedless speeding caused her to collide into someone not fast enough to avoid her path. She heard belongings that were not hers clatter to the ground. All her fault.
"E-Excuse me," she stammered. "I'm very sorry," but I need to leave right now, she wanted to add. "Are you alright?" she managed to say.
"Oh," she heard a rather accented voice reply. "Nothing to fret about, surely…"
Sarah looked up and felt all the stress, and all her drinks, knot up inside her stomach and try to force their way out onto the sidewalk. He stood there, him, staring down at her with those eyes. She felt as if they trapped her where she stood when she noticed how everything was wrong. His hair- short. Clothes- like anyone else's. No, this wasn't him. Couldn't be him. She was the one who was completely wrong.
"Oh god," she said aloud. He grinned down at her as she tried to move away.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his expression the same.
"You're not real," she said breathily, dodging the on-coming foot traffic ahead of her. He followed behind, effortlessly keeping up.
"Aren't I?" he queried casually, hands dug into jean pockets.
"NO!" she bellowed, stopping dead and swinging around to face him. People on the sidewalk slowed suddenly, their conversations becoming hushed, as they parted to go around her. He suppressed a laugh.
"You should mind your tone. People might think you're mad," he said, dubious concern weaved into his voice as he looked her over critically. A corner of Sarah's mouth twitched upward.
"Aren't I?"
"What?" he seemed to say incredulously.
"Haven't I been mad this entire time? Standing on a sidewalk talking to nobody." She swung back around on her heel. Her front door was in sight.
He arched a delicately manicured brow. "I've never been called a 'nobody' before, but I suppose there's a first for everything. Especially with you. Isn't there?"
Sarah took two steps up at a time to reach her street-level door and jammed the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and squeezed inside. As she went to slam it shut, a hand placed squarely on the center of the door provided more opposing force than she could overcome.
"What are you doing?" she said flatly.
"Are you going to make me knock? Is that what you would prefer?" he asked her quietly. She paused and her mind raced. None of this was real. Why was she trying to formulate a way to throw him off?
"What if I said I did?" she said, suddenly. He smiled up at her, revealing delicately pointed teeth.
"I'd say you'd never open the door again."
She remained silent, and caught herself staring at him. He was right, but dammit she didn't want to look. She tried to look anywhere that wasn't him.
"If I'm not real anyway," he began, "what difference does it make if you let me in or not?"
"I am not letting you in," she said quietly.
Carefully, without losing his purchase on her door, he ascended a step, and then another, as Sarah resisted the urge to retreat and thus give up the entrance to her home entirely. Soon, he was standing over her.
"Yes," he said softly. "You are."
A/N: After such a sterling response to my first chapter, I decided that I'd do another. I think I should probably be worried that it's so easy to write this story...
