Chapter 2

A long, dark road. The girl is running - her footsteps echo with each frantic slap - away from something. Away from me. I yell at her to stop, to not be afraid. She slows. I catch up, grab her shoulder, turn her round to face me. But there's no face. I back away, looking harder, her features flickering and blurring. But it's no use. I reach out to touch her face, to ground it, make it real somehow. My fingers stretch, almost meeting her skin...

I woke up sweating and gasping.

It was her again.

Always the same girl, the same dream, only different settings.

The thing that kills me is that I can never see her face.

If only I could see her, maybe the nightmares would stop. Maybe that was the key.

I sat up, peeling the sheet from my cold wet torso, and padded over the floorboards to the bathroom. Bloodshot eyes, shadowed jaw. I looked like hell. The sleeping pills made me sleep, but when the nightmares came they held me down, suffocating me, so that I couldn't break the surface.

Time to face the real world, as Carlisle would say. Though the whole reason I stayed here was because it was not quite the real world.

I took my pills, dressed, and walked around the east wing, heading towards the dining hall. Dwayne, the manager, stood at the reception, that stupid wide grin on his face. A man and woman faced him, checking in.

"The agent said it was seventy dollars a night." The guy said through clenched teeth, trying to use his size to intimidate Dwayne.

The guy had on a checked shirt, trucker's cap and bull's head belt buckle. He was about 6'3, 3 feet wide and menacing.

"Sorry Mr Fields, but your agent has given you ancient information. It's ninety dollars a night for non-residents." Dwayne answered with an apologetic grin, oblivious or immune to this redneck's bullying tactics; he'd seen it all before.

I stopped in the doorway, watching warily. He looked like the kind of guy who wouldn't think twice about throwing punches.

"You tellin' me that piece of shit room up there is ninety bucks a night?" He pointed back toward block 2 forcefully, almost knocking out the small woman beside him.

So they're putting him in with the crazies, I thought with satisfaction as the woman stepped back, dodging his jabbing finger. For a moment her eyes caught mine and she darted quickly back to the man's side, who I assumed was her husband.

Dwayne nodded, shrugging. "Still the cheapest place in town."

"Fine, just give me the keys." The big redneck demanded.

The woman barely came up to his shoulder, and as he turned and picked up their luggage, she followed obediently. Her large, brown eyes flitted uneasily from side to side as she kept her head and shoulders down, hiding her face behind her long auburn-brown hair.

Something about the couple's vibe just didn't sit right with me. It wasn't that he was ignoring her; it was like he didn't see her, didn't want to. Like she was nothing.

As Dwayne walked past me, leading them out to block 2, he gave me a nod. "Edward."

The young woman looked up and caught me staring. I smiled slightly, friendly, so at least I didn't look like a complete weirdo. Her eyes grew wider, fixed on me, and she walked into the doorframe with an audible "Oof."

The redneck didn't turn around.

She flushed red, scrambling after him, turning back to me for one more frightened glance. I chuckled, continuing on my way. Through the reception hall: its familiar dark wood – once ominous – was a comfort to me now; past the stairs, my hidden alcove underneath them, with its cushy armchair and dim lamp: my secret reading corner; and past the musty lounge with its faded threadbare couches, flowered curtains and doily covered coffee table.

The dining hall was bright and bustling, often doubling as a soup kitchen on Sundays, but not this morning. This morning guests lined up before the powdered eggs dried out, and I joined them.

"How you doin' this morning Edward?" The old cook, Walter, slopped a spoonful of 'eggs' onto my plate. His face was lopsided, mouth turned up, one eye squinting. Frozen in an eternal wink.

"I'd be better if this crap you served wasn't just mulched newspaper."

He snorted. "Like I always say, if you won't eat it, there's plenty more who will."

I shrugged, making my way over to an unoccupied laminate table. I picked at my bland breakfast and looked around the room. The men and women here –mainly men- were drained, grey and world-weary. They shuffled about, picking at the holes in their clothes, grunting at each other in a show of humanity, mostly keeping to themselves. We'd seen too much and taken more from this life than we could handle. Most of us were outcasts; fringe dwellers; standing on the edge of society, dipping our toes in.

The majority of my time was spent in this dining hall, or spilling my soul to the in-house quack, Dr Carlisle Cullen. I was required to work nine hours of chores to pay for food, lodgings and all other services. Seemed like a sweet deal, but you were expected to find a job on the outside after a few months. They didn't worry about not having enough help around the place, they had a plethora of slaves at their disposal.

Sometimes I escaped by reading in my 'secret' nook. That place was a concession he had made: Carlisle didn't want me holed up in my room, doing nothing but reading; and I didn't want to talk to anyone. Reading was the only distraction I had from this half-life I was living.

Then there was my community service, as I called it. The various over-60s dance groups that were overjoyed when they had a real live boy playing their music for them. I only had one requirement: that the piano was regularly tuned. That thing had been unused for longer than me.

I was almost as entertained as they were. Almost. The amount of times they pulled out photos of their daughters/granddaughters/sons to tempt me with was a little disconcerting. I mean I was a resident in a halfway house for God's sake. I'm sure the poor whippersnappers had standards.

Sometimes I would attempt to venture outside, filling out the daily mission he thought I was ready for. Spending the good part of three years locked inside had left me with the nice parting gift of agoraphobia - a fear of wide-open spaces - or any other space I wasn't familiar with if I thought about it.

If it sounded like the good doctor basically ran my life, well I suppose at the moment he did. But I trusted him. I had to. That was what I repeated to myself every time I stood in the entryway, gripping the doorframe with white knuckles, trying to talk myself into stepping out into the sunlight. You trust him Edward.

Since the day I stepped in that door my life had been stuck on a recurring cycle. Eat – chore – Sleep. Eat – Read – Sleep. Eat – Carlisle – Sleep. Eat – Piano – Sleep. Repeat as necessary. For three whole frickin months.

And the nightmares. The girl with no face haunted me every night.

They were big on routine at Directions House. My existence was a revolving door of never-ending, screamingly monotonous routine. I wanted to claw at the walls, do something dramatic just to relieve the boredom. At least at Box Hill the nut jobs were entertaining. But Carlisle said routine was a fundamental step in the road to recovery, and I was making progress... or so he said.

'You can't run before you learn to crawl, Edward.' He constantly reiterated to me.

Finishing breakfast, I cleared my table and took my tray to the kitchen. I lingered, procrastinating, putting off my daily mission: the lawn.

Green, sprawling, and completely open to the elements.

Clenching my fists, I walked to the back door. I pulled the curtain back to peek out a little, Making sure there was no one out there. A glimpse of anyone and it was mission: failed. I didn't know why; I gave up trying to find the logic in my fears a long time ago. No one was out there today.

I twisted the door handle, flinching as the latch clicked.

Just like a band-aid. Carlisle's voice echoed in my head.

I held my breath, and stepped into the sunlight.