Sydney stared at her hands, trembling. They were covered in blood. It was under her nails, in every crevice, warm and sticky. How had that happened? And where was she? The last thing she remembered was –
Actually, she wasn't sure. Her memory was fuzzy. She looked around the room in confusion. The size of a high school gym, it was badly lit by dying bulbs dangling from the ceiling, although it looked like there were shapes on the floor. As she stepped forwards to get a closer look, she realized that the floor was littered with bodies.
Her stomach churned. She stepped forward and glanced down as she kicked something and heard it skitter across the floor. Her knife. Rather than its usual silver, the blade was red – the handle too. Her breath caught in her throat. She raised her head and her eyes travelled over the bodies again. They were covered in blood, which oozed over the floor.
Horror began to creep up on her as she pieced things together.
Swiftly she stepped towards the first body, which lied on its side facing away from her, and dropped to her knees. She rolled the body towards her to see Francois, his eyes open and unseeing, a long cut down his torso through his shirt. She pressed a shaking hand to his throat, looking for a pulse. Not finding one, she moved to the next one. Kurt. The next one. Dallas. Grey. Derek. Stewie. Claudia. Karen. Her dad. Jenny. With each body she checked she was met with glassy eyes and some kind of incision, whether it was their torso, throat, thigh. Horror grew with each person she found. All of them someone she knew, someone she had some kind of history with. Her stomach turned and she was sick several times as she moved across the room.
There was one more prone figure lying a few feet in front of her. Her heart sank.
No. No no no no no.
Sydney just stared, unable to move from her kneeling position beside Jenny. She could see the soft, quality clothing that didn't make sense on a T.A. salary, the brown hair, the thin frame she knew so well. A chill overtook her. Her chest was tight, her heart restricted and her lungs unable to expand. While she didn't want to know, she had to, had to make sure. She wasn't sure how long she stared for, but eventually she stumbled to her feet, and walked to the figure on trembling legs.
When she reached him, she collapsed to her knees. Her fingers fought to find a pulse in his throat but there was only utter stillness and cold skin. He didn't make a sound as she shook him. Even the smell of him was gone, what was left, nothing but death. Grief, terror and shock fully consumed her, became physical and she let out a guttural cry of pain.
Sydney bolted upright as she woke in a cold sweat and gasped, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Early morning sunlight streamed in the window and lit the room in soft morning light. Sydney stared at her hands, for a moment seeing blood. As her racing heart slowed, she was able to control her breathing and she realized she was in her own bed, her vision cleared, and she could see that her hands were clean. She couldn't quell the nausea she still felt though.
"Syd?" came a sleep infused voice from her left. A hand came to rest on her waist. She couldn't make herself look at him as she fought the horror of the nightmare, of what she'd done. When she didn't reply or turn, the mattress shifted and the sheets rustled, a warm body pressed against her side. "Hey," he said. Fingers were at her temple; they brushed her hair back and then dropped to intertwine with her hand, still held out in front of her. He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it. She closed her eyes and tried to let the sensation overtake the ones that lingered from the nightmare. "You had that dream again?"
"Yeah." She ran her free hand through her hair and focused on her breathing, and on the touch of the man beside her.
"It has to be the doll, Syd." She couldn't argue with him. It was after she touched the doll and brought it back to the university that the nightmares started. It was the same each time: people she knows, dead by her hand. They were always people she knows, had some kind of connection with at some point – past or present. The nightmares didn't happen every night, but they'd been increasing in frequency. They left her nauseous and unable to look him in the eye, ashamed of what she'd done.
He let go of her hand and she missed the contact immediately. She needn't have worried – he simply wrapped his arm around her instead and pulled her to him as he laid back down on the bed. She settled half on top of him, her head on his chest and her hand over his heart, and slipped her right leg over his, tangling their legs together. He kissed the top of her head as he covered her hand with his own. She breathed in the smell of him. Finally, finally, she relaxed. He was here, warm, his heart beating a steady rhythm under her hand. Alive.
