Meg fell back to sleep in John's arms, proximity bringing a deep sense of peace no matter the danger she'd sensed around them. In his arms anything felt possible, she drifted off dreaming of a future together, in spite of her many doubts.
The nightmare when it came was therefore devastating, especially for its vivid sense of reality.
Horror took the form of a fairly recent event. One that had resolved itself without tragedy.
A twist on event that had occurred and been survived six months ago in fact.
John had held her against her will in that ratty old hotel room. He'd been ministering to her dislocated kneecap, souvenir of the battle at Eddie's car wash when one of Wei's goons had kicked her. Her rage at John and the circumstance had been white hot, heightened by the pain and adrenaline of her injury. Seeing an unguarded moment and a chance to make her move for John's gun, she'd gone for it, bringing the weapon to his head, even as he reached for a compress for her knee.
It had been an incredibly tense moment, she'd had the upper hand. John had urged her bitterly to go for it--and had meant it, she knew now, the thought implicit: end my misery. She hadn't, and John had quickly turned the tables. His own rage erupting holding the gun to her throat for several tense moments before the torment had entered his eyes and he'd broken away, moved across the room and apologized.
All had turned out well then. John had spoken of his family, his predicament and Meg had taken the first steps down the road that led to where their relationship now stood.
Her dream, perverse as the unconscious mind can make things, had rewritten the scene. This time, he'd urged her to go ahead and shoot, and she had done it. Shot him, point blank, in the head, watched as his body fell lifeless to the hotel room floor. Blood and brain matter everywhere.
The imagery shot her out of slumber into full wakefulness in the span of a few seconds. She started awake, clammy with shock, her entire body jumping as though to physically escape the phantasm.
She'd pulled, unknowing, from John's embrace. Meg moving abruptly out of his arms
startled him, made his finely honed sense of danger kick in.
In the moment or two it took him to orient himself and recognize, visually and viscerally, the source of tumult, his every sense jumped alive, ready to act as necessary. It took some concerted effort, once he realized that Meg's abrupt movement warned not of external threat but inner torment, to ratchet down his response. But he did it, and reached for her.
Her skin had the cold clamminess of someone who had just suffered a physical or emotional shock. She was breathing heavily, her eyes unfocussed as though a dream still held her and refused to let her go.
John, bemused, pulled her close again. She sobbed once, then shivered.
"Meg, what is wrong?" he asked quietly, stroking her hair, tipping her chin up to look into her eyes.
The dissociative look was fading, but fresh pain was taking its place. When she didn't answer, he pressed on, "Meg, tell me!"
The tormented brown eyes tried to look away, but he wouldn't allow it.
"I dreamt you were dead," Meg said finally, seeming about to say more at first, but no words followed.
"But I am not. Meg, look at me, please. See that it was a nightmare."
Meg did as she was bidden, the fear in her eyes slowly giving way to the glisten of tears. She never shed them, John watching in concerned fascination as she forced back even threat of weeping. Instead she shook her head and forced a smile.
It troubled John that she was dissembling, he instinctively knew that there was something about her dream that she had not shared. He cared not that she was hiding something, only worried at the price it was costing her to keep the secret in.
"There is more, is there not?? Something you aren't telling me. Please Meg, tell me what it is so that together we can deal with it." he urged.
Meg looked at him for a moment, torture in her beautiful brown eyes. When she spoke it was with difficulty, as though she feared that giving the images voice might somehow make them come true.
"I dreamt that we were back in the hotel room, six months ago. That when I held the gun to your head--that I shot you. I killed you in my dream, John..." she shuddered involuntarily.
John reached out in empathy. He'd had a dream or two of his own about the incident, only his afflicted him from the opposing viewpoint, that when he had retaliated by holding the gun to her neck, it had gone off.
The dreams held a kernel of truth--that each of them held the greatest capacity to hurt the other, the unconscious mind taking a vivid and inelegant method of informing the dreamers of that fact. He confessed his own experience to her then, in low tones. explaining their origin as he had begun to see it and live with it.
"It didn't happen, never will happen. We will forget these images. All we need to do is to have a care for each other and everything will be all right," he concluded, stroking her face.
Meg let the tears go then, tears of healing or torment he could not be sure. He felt an answering wetness in his own eyes.
That she accepted the comfort he offered her now, was good. He concentrated on enfolding her not only into his arms, but into a healing sense of peace.
He'd created the maelstrom, and as always seemed to be true, Meg was paying the price.
Meg slipped her laptop into the suitcase with the clothes she had already packed, then placed the bundle she'd taken from her hidden stash of weapons next to it. In addition to the .38 she carried in her purse, she now felt fully armed and ready to take on all comers.
John was napping again, less strong physically, Meg knew, than he pretended to be. He'd held her for a long time after her nightmare, soothing her with soft words of comfort in English and his mother tongue until he had drifted off, repaying the energy debt he owed his wounded body. She'd slipped out of his arms to set about gathering the items she'd come here to retrieve.
Somehow Meg had been able to overcome the trauma the nightmare had created. She turned the horror and grief it had created into a renewed purpose.
The phantasm had been created out of her guilt at letting her natural caution drop, from her sense that danger was closing in around them. As well, as John had confessed to her, with the knowledge that outside physical threats aside, they did have the capacity to be their own worst enemies. Two wounded souls, slowly learning what it meant to love and be loved.
She coped with this knowledge, which had disturbed her earlier, by rededicating herself to
John and keeping him safe. The rest she would learn to deal with later.
She slipped into her outer office, walking softly and quietly. She opened a drawer in her computer desk, searching for a card given her months ago and ignored until now. Finding it,
she sat down and booted up the computer.
She typed out the message, carefully entering the address written on the card, then opened up her internet connection to send it.
It was one of the reasons she now needed the laptop, so that she could remotely access her e-mail as she awaited Zeedo's reply.
Meg returned to her bedroom and sat at the edge of her bed, watching John sleep.
He looked so peaceful. Although she reckoned that it was past time that he had a dressing change and more medication, she did not have the heart to disturb him. Instead she sat for several minutes just looking at him.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he roused after a while, dark eyes opening slowly, a smile spreading across his face as they beheld her.
"Past time we were getting back to the loft. Lee Ma and Liu Shen will be wondering what happened to us."
end of Chapter 13
The nightmare when it came was therefore devastating, especially for its vivid sense of reality.
Horror took the form of a fairly recent event. One that had resolved itself without tragedy.
A twist on event that had occurred and been survived six months ago in fact.
John had held her against her will in that ratty old hotel room. He'd been ministering to her dislocated kneecap, souvenir of the battle at Eddie's car wash when one of Wei's goons had kicked her. Her rage at John and the circumstance had been white hot, heightened by the pain and adrenaline of her injury. Seeing an unguarded moment and a chance to make her move for John's gun, she'd gone for it, bringing the weapon to his head, even as he reached for a compress for her knee.
It had been an incredibly tense moment, she'd had the upper hand. John had urged her bitterly to go for it--and had meant it, she knew now, the thought implicit: end my misery. She hadn't, and John had quickly turned the tables. His own rage erupting holding the gun to her throat for several tense moments before the torment had entered his eyes and he'd broken away, moved across the room and apologized.
All had turned out well then. John had spoken of his family, his predicament and Meg had taken the first steps down the road that led to where their relationship now stood.
Her dream, perverse as the unconscious mind can make things, had rewritten the scene. This time, he'd urged her to go ahead and shoot, and she had done it. Shot him, point blank, in the head, watched as his body fell lifeless to the hotel room floor. Blood and brain matter everywhere.
The imagery shot her out of slumber into full wakefulness in the span of a few seconds. She started awake, clammy with shock, her entire body jumping as though to physically escape the phantasm.
She'd pulled, unknowing, from John's embrace. Meg moving abruptly out of his arms
startled him, made his finely honed sense of danger kick in.
In the moment or two it took him to orient himself and recognize, visually and viscerally, the source of tumult, his every sense jumped alive, ready to act as necessary. It took some concerted effort, once he realized that Meg's abrupt movement warned not of external threat but inner torment, to ratchet down his response. But he did it, and reached for her.
Her skin had the cold clamminess of someone who had just suffered a physical or emotional shock. She was breathing heavily, her eyes unfocussed as though a dream still held her and refused to let her go.
John, bemused, pulled her close again. She sobbed once, then shivered.
"Meg, what is wrong?" he asked quietly, stroking her hair, tipping her chin up to look into her eyes.
The dissociative look was fading, but fresh pain was taking its place. When she didn't answer, he pressed on, "Meg, tell me!"
The tormented brown eyes tried to look away, but he wouldn't allow it.
"I dreamt you were dead," Meg said finally, seeming about to say more at first, but no words followed.
"But I am not. Meg, look at me, please. See that it was a nightmare."
Meg did as she was bidden, the fear in her eyes slowly giving way to the glisten of tears. She never shed them, John watching in concerned fascination as she forced back even threat of weeping. Instead she shook her head and forced a smile.
It troubled John that she was dissembling, he instinctively knew that there was something about her dream that she had not shared. He cared not that she was hiding something, only worried at the price it was costing her to keep the secret in.
"There is more, is there not?? Something you aren't telling me. Please Meg, tell me what it is so that together we can deal with it." he urged.
Meg looked at him for a moment, torture in her beautiful brown eyes. When she spoke it was with difficulty, as though she feared that giving the images voice might somehow make them come true.
"I dreamt that we were back in the hotel room, six months ago. That when I held the gun to your head--that I shot you. I killed you in my dream, John..." she shuddered involuntarily.
John reached out in empathy. He'd had a dream or two of his own about the incident, only his afflicted him from the opposing viewpoint, that when he had retaliated by holding the gun to her neck, it had gone off.
The dreams held a kernel of truth--that each of them held the greatest capacity to hurt the other, the unconscious mind taking a vivid and inelegant method of informing the dreamers of that fact. He confessed his own experience to her then, in low tones. explaining their origin as he had begun to see it and live with it.
"It didn't happen, never will happen. We will forget these images. All we need to do is to have a care for each other and everything will be all right," he concluded, stroking her face.
Meg let the tears go then, tears of healing or torment he could not be sure. He felt an answering wetness in his own eyes.
That she accepted the comfort he offered her now, was good. He concentrated on enfolding her not only into his arms, but into a healing sense of peace.
He'd created the maelstrom, and as always seemed to be true, Meg was paying the price.
Meg slipped her laptop into the suitcase with the clothes she had already packed, then placed the bundle she'd taken from her hidden stash of weapons next to it. In addition to the .38 she carried in her purse, she now felt fully armed and ready to take on all comers.
John was napping again, less strong physically, Meg knew, than he pretended to be. He'd held her for a long time after her nightmare, soothing her with soft words of comfort in English and his mother tongue until he had drifted off, repaying the energy debt he owed his wounded body. She'd slipped out of his arms to set about gathering the items she'd come here to retrieve.
Somehow Meg had been able to overcome the trauma the nightmare had created. She turned the horror and grief it had created into a renewed purpose.
The phantasm had been created out of her guilt at letting her natural caution drop, from her sense that danger was closing in around them. As well, as John had confessed to her, with the knowledge that outside physical threats aside, they did have the capacity to be their own worst enemies. Two wounded souls, slowly learning what it meant to love and be loved.
She coped with this knowledge, which had disturbed her earlier, by rededicating herself to
John and keeping him safe. The rest she would learn to deal with later.
She slipped into her outer office, walking softly and quietly. She opened a drawer in her computer desk, searching for a card given her months ago and ignored until now. Finding it,
she sat down and booted up the computer.
She typed out the message, carefully entering the address written on the card, then opened up her internet connection to send it.
It was one of the reasons she now needed the laptop, so that she could remotely access her e-mail as she awaited Zeedo's reply.
Meg returned to her bedroom and sat at the edge of her bed, watching John sleep.
He looked so peaceful. Although she reckoned that it was past time that he had a dressing change and more medication, she did not have the heart to disturb him. Instead she sat for several minutes just looking at him.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he roused after a while, dark eyes opening slowly, a smile spreading across his face as they beheld her.
"Past time we were getting back to the loft. Lee Ma and Liu Shen will be wondering what happened to us."
end of Chapter 13