As I inhale slowly, just enjoying the smell, a weight lifts. And the pain goes with it. It's such a cool feeling. The smell's her shampoo. My damaged brain even forms a picture and for a moment, I see B. A light breeze tousles her hair like in a commercial. She looks amazing.

The upshot is: I didn't go anywhere. I'm still in bed. I can almost feel her in my arms. Safe bet I'll be fine unless Sparky here gets out a Ginsu glove.

I should be so lucky. He gets preachy instead, "It might pay you to reconsider my offer." Oh, please, the voice too? Idiot sounds like he's auditioning to do ads for the Whole Truth. "I can't see you believing that your life's worth…"

He's too late. I've had enough of his bullshit. My legs are back. I tune him out and stand, but he doesn't move an inch and neither do I. I leave myself behind. It's like David Lynch has taken up directing my dreams as a hobby. I just wish I'd gotten the dancing midget instead of this douchebag. Little guy looked like he knew how to party. We could've had a time.

Backing slowly away is probably the thing to do, but seeing even part of what the me on the floor sees is just too trippy. Sparky's mask elongates as he rants, but his voice is too hollow and muffled. I can't make out a single word he says now.

I should probably count my blessings. Wonder if he gets that the jackboots and trenchcoat make him look like a deranged perv.

Or a Gestapo hitman. He's truly scary, but fanatics always are.

Yeah, I've heard enough.

I look like hell. Fat lot of good those fake-leather pants did me. It looks like he hung me waist-deep in cage full of badgers. A wide scratch on my stomach peeks out from a rip in my sweater. There's a deep gash along my cheekbone. And I'm not even going to start counting bruises. I'd be here all night.

There's no way any of that would've been healed by the next day. I was pretty bad off, but I don't remember being this bad.

I'd probably be cool if that was it, but it's not. There's a lot here that doesn't make sense. Starting with: why am I so lucid? Dreams are all about going with the flow. Accepting what happens at face value. And if it's something really crappy…

Even slayer dreams just are what they are. Your average nightmare on crack. Getting my head chopped off was fun. But there wasn't any bouncing. And I didn't end up staring at the inside of a basket or my decapitated corpse.

So why didn't I wake up this time?

Asking 'what if I can't?' would just be masochistic. I'll pass. But it sure makes that Freddy Krueger joke seem a whole lot less amusing.

My best guess is that this is more of what Alicia did to me. But without her here to explain, I'm stuck fishing. For all I know, someone slipped me a mickey. That'd fit with not being able to wake up. But B.'s the only one who would've had a chance and I can't accept that she'd do that. There's just no way.

So, if this is a memory, how does Kako fit in? Did Sparky come back to finish me? Or did he feed me to her? That wouldn't make any sense, what with the big rescue.

But neither thing makes sense. And where the hell's B.?

For that matter, who's doing the forcing? My tour guide's M.I.A. and I could seriously use her help.

Even seeing myself like this doesn't exactly scream 'memory.' If that is what this is, then I'm coloring way outside the lines. This is like one of those stupid—

Shit.

I blink, but nothing changes. This completely takes the cake.

Is this just the most wickedly real, blatantly formula, half-assed, contrived, poorly concocted dream ever?

The blood streaming down the wall behind the other me's head would seem to say 'yes.' At least I think it's blood. That'd track what with—

I look up. Black shit dribbles out along the crack where the grubby brick wall meets whatever that other black shit is they used for the ceiling. Maybe the ceiling's bloody too? It's tough to tell without much light. But whatever—

I'm done. My brain's definitely been dropped too many times. I turn away.

If this just has to happen, I'm onboard for a rewind. A little realism sounds nice, tossed in with some deeply smutty, erotic fantasy. No repercussions. No recriminations. Not even a funny aftertaste. Sign me up. Now how do I get back there?

The floor's collapsed in the middle of the room. As I head over to give it a look, a friendly male voice calls out, "You should've listened. The man had a point," hard to believe, but I don't recognize him until he calls me, "Firecracker."

Great! This is just great! So, instead of Punky Brewster, this time around I get life coaching from Roy Stoner?

Man, I watch too much TV.

I look from one blood-streaked wall to the next as he rattles off some crap about 'my elders' and having 'taught me better.' Make that a disembodied Mayor Stoner. What's he supposed to be? The Ghost of Villains Past or some shit?

And why's he so ticked? I'm not even sure I said anything. Is he in my head like the kid was? I hope not, 'cause that'd just suck.

Whatever. He can run his mouth all he wants. He skipped the 'little' this time, but that other thing—the first thing he said—

Mom was screwed. It's easy to overlook that things were good once or twice. Him calling me that always brings back…

I stare blankly at the floor remembering the good times. It's not much more than a few impressions. My memory isn't the best. But there were a couple of evenings when she cooked for me and things seemed almost normal.

I'm not sure how to feel. Anything besides resentment or blind indifference gets confusing.

She trashed my life, but I loved her. That's as good as it gets.

He trashed my life too, but there's just something about the old guy that's—

Why do evil things have to be so goddamned charming?

Thankfully, most of Mayor Wilkins' charm goes out the window when he opens his mouth this time, "You know you were wrong."

Do I?

I drop the debate and head for the hole. This is fun and—

Dammit.

I blink out of pure habit, but I don't expect the view to improve. It hasn't so far and it doesn't now. The upper half of the wall's streaked in black and red. The highest points in the center shimmer in the faint light that shines in through the hole behind me.

See what I get for thinking about David Lynch? My twisted brain snapped up the idea and mangled it. The blood's not pooling on the floor. And where it's run together, it's gathered up like fabric. The bleeding velvet drapes pretty much wreck any allegory.

But who needs symbolism, really? I like the direct approach. Cross this line and you'll end bloody.

The one major up is this looks cool as hell. I'm tempted to hang out and watch. I don't. I've got better things…

The bottom half or so of the drapes are still ragged. Blood trickles from the ends. It looks sticky, like some kind of candy. Taffy maybe?

No, not taffy. It's stringy like that, but—

I dunno. Fake blood usually has Karo syrup in it, so the candy angle isn't bad. It's just…

Umm…

I know what this is like. It's like when you sneeze. You cover your mouth and sometimes—well, it's just gross…the way the snot webs between your fingers. This isn't clear like that, but that's how it looks.

As I take the half dozen or so steps it takes me to reach the hole, two tattered edges meet and cling, like sticky shit does. A few more dribbles and presto a thin new fold of velvet puckers out, glistening as it catches the light.

And this is happening all around. Hollywood's got nothing on me.

The hole's a bust. There's nothing here. Just a few broken floorboards folded down between two steel support beams. The boards hang into darkness so deep it's fuzzy. This is like staring into the mouth of a cave.

I should watch the walls. They're cooler. But I have to look. I just know that any second now a light's gonna come on and something will happen. And that something will make all of this crap make sense.

It doesn't. Sparky's the thing that starts making sense. "Just look at yourself, Faith. Eventually, she'll tire of you." Or at least he stops sounding like he's in the next room talking through a fan with his mouth full of peanut butter. The 'sense' part's debatable. It's more like he's jerking my chain. Spewing the obvious. Preying on my doubts.

Yeah, I've got some. What of it?

The Horrible Mayor Wilkins has to get his shot in too, "He's right, y'know? As sure as the sun will set, your little chickadee is going to fly the coop."

Yeah, yeah…keep going. So, of course, he does, "There's no sense in lying to yourself about something that's as clear as day." He's right next to me now.

I'm actually more concerned by the little bit of this dress I can see than anything they say. I'd been ignoring it up to now, but morbid curiosity takes its toll.

Besides, it beats granting His Honor an audience. Anything's better.

Still half-focused on the hole, I look at the antique floral print that covers my chest. And I do mean covers. This is the sort of thing a ten-year-old might wear to church. I hold the skirt out like chicks do in the movies when they curtsey and grumble, "Look, if you clowns really want to set me off, start in on this rag."

"And when she does, I'll be there," Sparky rasps, pretty much drowning me out.

Yeah, I'll make note that Team Evil thinks I'm screwed too. But fact is, I couldn't give a shit less what this fuckwit does or where he'll be. If this thing with B. goes the usual way—straight to hell—he'll be the least of my problems.

The mayor's hand closes around my upper arm. He poses half behind me. I still don't bother. It's pointless. He speaks over my shoulder into my ear, mentoring me like the father I always craved, "I have good feeling about this young man. He has potential. He shows initiative. I believe he's really going places."

It doesn't play. Even his breath on my cheek and the faint smell of peppermint—he always smelled like peppermint—none of it works. If he'd say something worth hearing, his act would be perfect. But what he's pushing is complete bullshit.

"Most people don't get a second chance at greatness. Only a—"

Oh, no. He's not getting to call me a fool. Not for this. I give him a scathing over-the-shoulder glance and cut him off, "Yeah, he looks like a real winner." I've been a fool. I've even been a fool in recent memory. But not over this.

I try to pull away, but he holds tight, scolding me like a spoiled child, "Now, Faith, I'll admit his fashion sense is a bit misguided, but the clothes don't make the man."

That tears it. I snap, "A bit? This jerk is afraid to—"

He talks right over me, "Mark my words, you'll regret this. I thought you were smarter than—"

Screw this! I yank my arm free as I turn on him and shout, "If he's all that, then why the mask? What's he hiding?"

"Does it matter?" he asks, gesturing to something behind me. I just glare. "You threw away a golden opportunity. And for what?" He's the picture of patience. Even tone, subtle smile…in short, he plays the politician. Imagine that.

And I end up feeling like a horse's ass. Not about Sparky. I'm right about him. I've just got such a soft spot for Mayor Wilkins.

He keeps glancing over my shoulder. Finally, I crack. I should know what's back there. We're standing right next to the red velvet drapes. My back's practically pressed against them. They're not nasty anymore. Actually, they look perfectly normal.

Well, alright. Go me! I made imaginary drapes.

Hey, maybe I can whip up an imaginary door while I'm at it. And get my imaginary ass out of this dive.

I turn and look past him. The act of turning moves me. Or maybe it moved me when I looked at the drapes. Whichever, whatever…I didn't go anywhere, but now we're on the other side of the hole. And on the far side of that, Sparky's leaned over me. My shirt's ripped open. His hand glows against my chest.

See? I knew he was a perv.

The mayor blocks my way when I try to go look. "You don't need to see that," he says.

Yeah, I do. I need to know what that fucker's doing to me. But before I can even get clear, Sparky picks me up and chucks me into the hole in the floor like I'm nothing.

And I guess he's right. I am nothing. I'm a limp, lifeless, beat up thing that just drops from view like so much trash.

After pitching me, Sparky bails. There's nothing left to see. As I turn to follow the mayor's lead, I hear an echo, "I'm doing you a favor."

God, I remember that. That's what the bastard said right before I passed out. I have no clue what he did to me or what happened next, but that much…I remember.

Stepping through the drapes doesn't quite live up to the metaphor this time. I just go from one dimly lit room to another. But the light here's bluer…less 'city light,' more 'starry night.'

What first catches my eye is a round, stained glass window, like the one in B.'s room. The vibrant purples and greens are deepened in the starlight. The darkest shades are almost black. It's beautiful.

But that isn't what I should be looking at. The mayor clues me in by grumbling, "Would you look at yourself? This is just disgusting."

B. groans my name as I direct my attention toward the floor. I've come full circle. Well, not really. I'd have to figure out how to put myself back together for that. But I stand at the edge of the mattress, overlooking us.

What I see doesn't disgust me at all. It's pretty creepy, but only because someone who could've been my dad is right next to me bitching. That'd creep anyone out. He sure has a lot to say. Awful stuff, like how we're 'rutting around' and 'behaving like animals.' Predictable stuff. Stuff that's not worth my time. I tune him out.

So, this is how we look together?

I guess, short of taking pictures, this is as close to knowing as I'm gonna get. And that really does creep me out. I don't get why people do that.

I hold B. cradled across my lap. Her hand slips between us as I nibble her neck. I vaguely recall that, but it was over so quick. She found an opening and used it to stroke my nipple with the edge of her thumb.

But I guess I missed quite a bit. Like how she's caressing the small of my back with her other hand. I got so wrapped up I glossed over it.

And no wonder. Sometimes she takes my breath away. I can't believe she's mine. That she's with me of all people. I end up feeling like I'm thirteen again with the worst crush ever. All butterflies and giggles. It's truly pathetic…I snicker…in a really, really wonderful way.

Her hand—the one that was between us—playing with my nipple, returns to where it was behind my neck. She laces her fingers through my hair. It looks almost like she's guiding me. She's not. We just both want the same thing.

As my head moves down, she turns hers and kisses my neck. I gave her just enough room and she took advantage. It's sad. I don't remember that either. It was really sweet.

When reach her breast, her head falls back and she groans. The gravely edge to her voice sends chills down my spine. Even here. Even now with…

I don't want to think about him. He pisses me off.

Disgusting?

You want to see disgusting? Check your tie.

Or that suit. I can't believe I ever looked up to someone who'd wear such cheap-ass, bargain basement, thrift store—

My hand moves down her stomach. I swing my leg out of the way, folding it beneath me.

She rests her hand over mine. I can't see what's happening, but I know. I'm sliding my fingers up and down.

I bite my lip. Echoes of something like sense memory affect me. My eyes drift shut. I almost feel—

There's a knot in my gut. Stupid butterflies flutter around it. What if I hurt her?

That doesn't hurt me, but I'm not her. She's—

I have to be sure.

But what if I do something else wrong? What if this doesn't feel good?

And y'know, I never worried about any of that before. The last thing that mattered was them. I knew they were getting off. That was cool and all, but I didn't give a crap.

With her, even the small stuff throws me. Like…I don't know…that time—the first time we…she gasped. It was one of those. A sharp sound, like she'd jabbed her finger with a needle or something. I couldn't see how I'd hurt her, but it sounded…

I thought for sure I'd screwed up. I hadn't. Her expression was priceless. I felt like an idiot.

That's the problem. I don't always know with her. And I can't take any chances. I might nick her with my nail or something and…

It's—

I love her.

When I open my eyes, all I see is that. None of the other stuff shows.

No. He's wrong. There's nothing disgusting here.

Except for that suit.

"What would you know about this?" I ask, turning to face him. I want him gone. The idea that he's watching us makes me—

I'd like to slap that sour look off his face. I can't. Part of me still—

He replies, "Not one single thing. This is—" His face twists like he just tasted something nasty. "But about love, commitment, the sanctity of marriage? I know more than you can imagine. I was with my Edna May—"

Oh, yeah…I remember this spiel. The big evil guy has a heart. Heading for the door, I stop him cold by snapping, "Then why are you asking?" There's no reason for me to stick around. If he doesn't get that I love her…if he can't figure out that B. means the same to me as Edna May did to him, screw him. I'm gone.

He calls after me, "Well, excuse me for my concern. But rest assured, little missy, this thing's bound to blow up in your face. You're backing…" The door clicks shut, muffling his voice. "…the losing filly."

It's bright out here.

I turn around. The door's gone.

I'm standing in the middle of a rolling lawn.