Daria endured her own restless dreams that night. Hers were more prosaic than those described by Jane, populated by the endless tunnels and menacing faces common to nightmares. Waking from the sensation of falling, it took her a few minutes to realize that Jane was not in the room.
She sat up from her sleeping bed and groped the nightstand before finding the metal frames of her glasses. She put them on and tried to make sense of her surroundings, the elements of dream corroding into reality. A bit of summer heat still lingered in the room.
"Jane?" she said, her voice not much more than a whisper.
No one slept in the bed, the sheets strewn in disarray. Daria stood up on legs still wobbly from sleep and touched the mattress. It was cold.
This can't be happening. Wait, stay calm. It's probably nothing.
"Jane?" she called out again, louder, her voice bouncing off the dusty walls.
You're going to walk out of the room, and Jane will be coming back up from the kitchen, or from the bathroom. This is absurd.
Her mind flashed back to Mrs. Johanssen, the desperation in her face, and to Pat Mayhew's inhuman appearance.
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Daria, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
"Thanks for that, Hamlet, I really needed it," she muttered.
She walked to the doorway and looked both ways, like a child crossing a street for the first time.
"Jane? Are you all right?"
A thud rattled through the roof's aging timber as if in response. Daria flinched at the sound.
On the roof?
Daria shouted Jane's name again, sure that her voice would carry through the thin walls. When she received only silence, she thought again of the noise on the roof.
Not quite believing her own actions, Daria hurried back to Jane's room and leaned out the window, hoping she was somewhere in the backyard (what she'd be doing there was another question altogether). Streetlights behind the fence cast their sterile yellow glare on the overgrown yard, the new gazebo already succumbing to neglect.
She was about to sound out another call when she heard scuffling noises on the slate roof. Daria's heart nearly stopped in her chest. Someone was there, Jane or an intruder.
"Jane, are you up there? Who is it? If you don't say anything, I'm going to call the police."
She kept her voice level, calm even in the strangeness of the situation. Some kind of response, even the curse or threat of a discovered burglar (as if anyone would bother burglarizing Casa Lane) would have been welcome. Instead, garbled words struggled through the stagnant air from up above. Words, Daria soon realized, spoken in Jane's voice.
"I can hear you. What are you doing up on the roof?" she demanded.
She can't expect me to go up there.
Never particularly afraid of heights, her circumstances nonetheless seemed to lengthen the drop to the ground below. A survivable fall in all likelihood, but not something she wanted to risk.
"Jane, come back down here. I'll, uh, help you back through the window."
Closing her eyes, Daria took a deep breath. Rough words from above scraped her ears. She thought of slipping back into her bedroll and waking back up to the waning days of adolescence, the whole event dismissed as nightmare, Jane returned to her normal (albeit unconventional) self.
Anything for Jane, an earlier version of herself said.
Daria positioned herself to sit on the windowsill. She pressed her back to the precipice and inched farther out. As she kept her eyes on the roof, she tried hard, so very hard, to not think of all the nothing behind and below her. Bare legs quivered in tension and she tried to steady herself. The longer she thought about it, she knew, the less likely she was to do it. Moving her upper body slightly forward she raised her right leg to plant the foot on the sill, the wood harsh against the sole.
You're doing okay. Stay calm.
Her heart beat as if ready to burst. Keeping a tight grip on the surface she lifted herself in a sudden jerk, Not giving herself time to think twice she shot up with both arms to grab at the edge of the roof, scrabbling on the slate until her forearms got on the patchy surface.
Upon realizing she hung from a second-story roof, completely unsupported, she almost let go. The hesitation cost her. A horrible, drooping exhaustion ran down from her wrists and into her shoulders, her body suddenly weighing twice as much as normal. Coated in sweat, she threw everything she had into the last pull, a frantic animal motion dedicated to pure survival.
At last securely on the roof, Daria let the fear seize her for just a moment and fell prone on the decaying slate surface, shaking from head to toe with her eyes wide open in shock.
Whispers, heavy and unknown, reminded Daria of her purpose.
She stood up and felt a brief surge of relief at seeing Jane farther up the roof, seated against the chimney. Her head lowered as if in defeat, a stream of sound spilling from her lips. Daria looked at her for a while, lacking the slightest idea as to what to do. She tried to think back to an abnormal psychology textbook she'd once read, trying to match the babbling to an illness. Daria soon gave up; even if she could put a name to the condition, it wouldn't really help her or Jane.
"Jane, I'm here. We need to get down," Daria urged.
Her foot dislodged a rotten shingle, and the ruined piece slid down to the edge. The sight spurred a new understanding about Jane: her lifetime spent in this crumbling edifice, always either too cold or too hot. Daria knew it mostly as a refuge, but how different it might look from another perspective.
Putting her mind back on task, Daria crouched down to Jane's level and crept forward. She could tell that Jane spoke nothing from English or Spanish, her awful noises more akin to pathology than language.
Should she reach out and grab Jane's shoulder? Or would that just shock her into pushing Daria right off the roof? It occurred to Daria that she ought to have called 911 back in the house; so fearful as to what might be happening, the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. She cursed her hastiness.
At least Jane's still in one piece. Physically, anyway.
"Jane, I don't know if you can hear me, but everything will be okay," she said, her voice still flat in an emergency. "I'm going to take your hand, okay? Can you hear me?"
Jane continued making sounds that did not seem designed for any human mouth, and Daria shuddered.
Maybe I should just crawl back in and call emergency services. I don't know how to guide anyone down from this situation. If I leave her up here though…
"On the count of three, okay? One… two… three."
Her hand grasped Jane's. Relief, like she never felt before, flooded her when Jane's eyes sprang open from the contact. Pale blue eyes looked at Daria in uncomprehending shock.
"Stay calm. Are you with me?"
Jane's hand jerked back from Daria's gentle hold. She scrambled to her feet, eyes fixed and distant. Daria prepared to offer more calming words. Then, Jane reached out with both hands, seized Daria by the shoulders, and shoved.
The roof flew out from under Daria. Her shoulder slammed onto the shingles as she hit and rolled. Hands scrabbled for some kind of hold, fingers scraping on the edges until at last she began to slow, inches away from the edge.
Her glasses askew, she instinctually tried to fix them, too shocked to even begin figuring out what had happened. The sound of running footsteps forced her to confront this terror.
"Jane!" she cried.
Jane aimed a terrific kick at Daria's prone body and she lurched to the side just in time to avoid it. Twin fears—of her being pushed off and of Jane falling off—gave Daria an unnatural strength, and she managed to get back up to her feet. Daria ran back up to the top of the roof near the chimney, where she'd at least have high ground.
A terrified Daria looked back to see Jane advancing, her face devoid of any emotion. Jane continued her ragged chant.
"Stop this. You can't do this," Daria muttered, her voice weak. She wanted to scream out more than anything, but something held her back, dreams of an ordered world keeping their hold. This too, would pass. It had to.
Daria kept telling Jane to stop, to come to her senses. None of the words made a difference. Only when Jane stood a few feet away did Daria try to back further down the other side. She moved too late. Jane seized her again, but instead of tossing her aside she kept her grip, pinning Daria against the chimney.
No. No. This can't be.
"Let me go," she said, her words oddly hollow. Daria's mind struggled even as her body went limp in disbelief. Jane pulled her away from the chimney and toward the edge, so that her grip alone kept Daria from falling.
Not like this, you're my friend!
Her vision started to blur, as if trying to spare her the horror of the scene.
This isn't Jane. It's something else, it isn't.
Jane pulled her a hair's breadth closer, as if preparing for the final push.
"No. You aren't doing this," Daria mumbled, barely able to hear her own voice. "We're friends."
Are you really her friend? asked a still-lucid voice in the back of her brain.
Life suddenly came back to Jane's face. The chant ended mid-groan, and her eyes went wide in shock.
"Oh my God!" Jane shouted.
She pulled Daria back from the brink in desperation, and the two of them collapsed together on the roof.
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Jane wailed, clutching her friend.
"It's okay," Daria mumbled, her mind still in a fog.
Too afraid to move, they waited for the dawn.
Daria and Jane clambered back through the window on exhausted limbs, the rising sun's prickling heat already warming up the dreary house. Both stayed silent as they staggered down to the kitchen, the comparatively bright room promising sanctuary.
Daria tried to reorient herself, still feeling as if her heart might burst right through her chest, seeing a threat in every movement.
Something funny might be good now.
"I guess I'll go make us some coffee," she intoned. "If anything can make us forget what almost happened, it's routine."
"How can you say that? I tried to kill you, Daria!"
"I'm still alive," she said, more out of obligation than any real confidence. With shaking hands she turned on the coffee maker, filling it up with water and grinds while Jane watched through tear-stained eyes.
"Okay. We're both okay. Right?"
"Beats me," Jane said, shaking her head.
"Neither of us is dead or hurt. Maybe slightly unstable, but that was probably a given."
A tiny hint of a smile on Jane released some of Daria's tension. Sitting at the table, Daria described the events from her perspective. Though her hands still shook when she retrieved the coffee, a rigorous calm settled over her mind.
"The dreams were back again last night," Jane said. "Worse than before. Is this something sleepwalkers do?"
"There are accounts of sleepwalkers getting into cars and driving across town, or of making food in the kitchen. Getting up on the roof doesn't seem so far-fetched," Daria pointed out. It was all in the context.
"But the other stuff—"
Daria paused, not sure if she should continue. She decided to be honest. "There are, uh, a few cases in which a sleepwalker has murdered someone. These are very rare—"
Jane buried her face in her hands, sobbing again.
"No. It wasn't you, it was some kind of misfiring neuron. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and listen to me."
Jane's face shot back up, disbelieving. She made a ragged sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
"Boy, you always know how to cut straight to the point," she said, her voice still unsteady.
"It saves time. You have no reason to feel guilty. You do need to see a doctor about this."
"It's been a while since anyone here's seen a doctor. I think I'm still on my parent's plan, but who knows when they last paid the fees. Daria, I can't believe that you're okay with this."
"I'm not okay with it! However, I can see it for what it is; a medical disorder. Jane you—" Daria paused, feeling a lump in her throat. "—you've always been there for me. Even if I haven't always returned the favor."
Jane nodded.
This is probably the part where Quinn would hug Sandi, and they'd all have a big cry before getting makeovers.
"So, anyway, yeah. See a doctor. If you don't have the money, my mom would probably be willing to give you some."
"Let me see what I can get with my own funds first," Jane insisted. "Trent's going to be back in a few days, and maybe he actually earned something this time. One thing's still bothering me, though: do sleepwalkers get intense dreams?"
"I'm not sure. I read a book about this stuff a few years ago, and I can't remember if it mentioned that. I'll look it up for you," Daria offered.
"Because that seems important. These are really vivid. I still see bits of them."
"What do you mean?"
"Those weird buildings. I see them on the edge of my vision sometimes."
"That could be part of it." Daria spoke slowly, puzzled by this new revelation. That didn't sound like mere sleepwalking.
"I'll bring it up with the doc. I'm sure he'll get a nice bonus for referring me to a psychiatrist."
"See, everyone wins. How soon do you think you can arrange an appointment?"
"Depends. It's always hard to say with my family."
"Don't wait. This looks pretty serious."
"This week, for sure."
"Do you want me to spend the night again? Or you could spend it at my place. That might be better; if you have another episode, I can just wake you up with one of Quinn's weird perfumes—sorry," she added, seeing Jane's flicker of irritation.
"No, it's okay. I guess it's better to laugh than to cry, right? Besides, after what happened you're not the one who should be saying sorry for anything. I think I'll be okay. Trent will be home in a few days."
"Call him and tell him it's an emergency. He'll go home for you."
"Yeah, I'll let him know."
"You also need to get some more rest," Daria urged. "Exhaustion can make sleepwalking worse, and you've been working pretty hard."
"Yeah, that's probably all this is. Besides, I should get more sleep to prep for the Foundation's special project. It starts this Tuesday."
"Are you sure you want to do that? All this painting's been taking a lot out of you."
"Nah, that's how we artists recover from bad events, we put it on canvas so the rest of the world can share in our angst. At least, that's how it used to work. Besides, it's not like they're going to keep me there overnight; I'll get plenty of rest, Dr. Morgendorffer."
"Just call Trent, at least. He has a right to know."
"Sure."
Daria got home just past noon and slipped between the covers after a quick shower. Scrapes covered her arms and legs, and every inch of her body ached. She'd spent the rest of the morning with Jane in a gallant attempt at normalcy, the decaying old house made familiar by sunlight and their shared joy.
She awoke a few hours later into the grogginess of an idle Sunday afternoon. A vestigial high school sense warned her of school the next day, and she dismissed it with an indulgent smirk.
The near-disaster of the previous night faded into the distance. A terror, to be sure, but one within her power to help solve. Jane's future posed more complex questions. Somnambulism to that degree could be a big problem, even in a place like Lawndale. Resigning her to Trent's care struck her as unwise.
They'd still be in close contact, at least. Technology easily bridged the geographic gap between Boston and Lawndale. Instant messenger had its limits, however. Worse, the idea that Jane would continue her sleepwalking when she reached BFAC. Who knew if she'd really solve the problem before then? Doctors didn't always prescribe the correct regimens. The idea of Jane stumbling through trash-ridden alleys and crowded streets, unaware and attacking those much stronger and crueler...
Daria forced the thought from her mind.
She's way too gifted to stay here.
For all that, Jane definitely needed to be ready for when she went to Boston. The presence of those who cared about her might make a crucial difference in her recovery.
Hell, maybe I can stay here for a little while, get a few classes under my belt at community.
Astonished at her own thoughts, Daria shook her head. Her parents had paid a fortune for Raft. Last-minute nostalgia aside, she had no real desire to stay on in Lawndale.
Her mind already in motion, she began to reexamine the context of Jane's sleepwalking. The dreams remained puzzling, prompting her to turn on the computer and go online, where a brief search indicated that dreams played no real part in the condition.
Not what I wanted to learn.
Still, plenty of people had weird dreams. Harder to explain was Mrs. Johanssen's rampage through the gallery. She doubted it bore any meaningful relation, but the very real fear in the woman's voice and the way she referred to the "bad paintings" had made an impression, one growing harder to ignore.
Pushing away from her computer, Daria looked out the window and to the street, a sight so mundane as to provide relief. There was no reason to assume any connection; the human mind had a way of creating patterns where none existed.
She wished she could talk about the issue to an understanding third party, but no such possibility presented itself. For one, it was a personal matter for Jane. Another, she simply didn't know anyone. She might have considered Tom as little as a month ago, but they'd quickly lost contact after splitting. His last communication had been an anemic "Hey, how are you doing?" type of conversation via IM. He'd logged off before her.
Tom's presence disrupted her memories of the past three years, his presence harder to explain in hindsight. She couldn't think badly of him. He'd been a good boyfriend—at least, he'd been good to her.
Daria didn't like thinking back on that night, to the awkward kiss that nearly destroyed everything. Her ethics, every merciless iron rule she'd set in place for herself—all tossed to the wind.
She'd never wanted romance, or at least that's what she told herself, but the idea of marching alone in that regard troubled her on some level. Jane got opportunities all the time—with Tom, part of Daria believed that he'd be her only chance. She did what she had to do to survive.
Because in the end, you're just like everyone else. Politicians who lie for votes, execs who pocket money that's not theirs, all the people you hold in contempt. Of course, just because everyone does it, doesn't make it less wrong, less deserving of anger.
Her mood darkened, she forced herself to focus of more immediate problems, and found herself increasingly dwelling on Mrs. Johanssen. With that, an idea came to her.