Author's Note: This is the concluding chapter of "Oneirophobia". Look for
a sequel in the next few weeks. Meantime, go read my other story, "Flowers
in Skulls".
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December 24, 2005, 900 PM, Asher's childhood home, Switzerland
He silenced the engine. Up ahead, Samuel Clarke could see the Christmas tree through the window, lights twinkling against the night sky, and he knew somewhere within the house were Asher and Richie. He would end this tonight-he had to end this tonight.
One way, or another.
He had learned long ago not to be picky.
Securing his gun beneath his coat, Samuel Clarke exited the car, with his hands stuffed in the pockets; he shuffled along the front walk, lifting his hand to knock on the door. Richie answered the door, his face still flushed, and his eyes still bright.
"Oh, it's you," he grimaced. "Merry Christmas, I suppose."
"Merry Christmas. Is Asher home?"
Samuel Clarke saw Richie sweep his hand back, saw his eyebrows race and the two cautious steps he took backwards. Samuel Clarke pushed his way inside, knowing Richie knew. He sighed. "I promise when this is all over, Ryan, you will still be standing. My fight is with Asher."
"Your fight is with yourself, Clarke." Richie sighed, his eyes suddenly less brighter. "Asher is in the kitchen."
Samuel knew Richie followed his steps, but he knew it did not matter. Asher stood at the window, a wide smile on her face, and a slow grin spread across Samuel Clarke's own face. "Merry Christmas, Asher," he greeted, and he laughed, when Asher whirled around, shock written on her face.
"Merry Christmas, Sam." She paused. "Why are you here?"
"I've come to offer my condolences on your loss, Ashley. I regret to inform you that your grandfather passed away earlier today."
"Your doing?" she asked quietly, and Sam was only slightly surprised that her voice betrayed no emotion.
"How could you think such--?"
"You swore long ago, Sam. You would kill anyone to get to me. I never wanted to believe you."
"You do now?"
Asher frowned. "What other choice do I have?"
"Several, actually." He was all too aware that Richie had pushed his away in, looking threateningly in his direction, daring him to make the first move. He allowed a single mocking smile to grace his lips. "You could marry me, or you could kill me. Or, I could kill you."
"That was three, Sam. Several is more than four. Besides," she paused, gathering her breath, "I am already engaged. Richie asked me, and I said yes. I don't love you, Sam. Not anymore."
"I suppose that leaves us to the other two. Someone will die tonight, Ashley, and I assure you, it will not be me."
"Your assurances always were off."
Sam swore he saw regret in her eyes. But he barely blinked, only reached inside his coat, and pulled the gun, confident of the metal in his hand. He pointed the gun's mouth towards Richie. "I give you one more chance, Ashley. Come with me now, or he dies. Either way, this will end tonight."
"At least we agree there, Sam."
Weeks later, when a lawyer would ask Samuel Clarke exactly what happened, he would not say, for he did not know exactly. He remembered hearing the gun go off; he remembered seeing Richie clutching his chest, and he remembered him slinking to the ground, his blood marring the lower cabinets; he remembered Asher kneeling beside him, crying him; he remembered Asher turning to him with only anger in his eyes; and he remembered the sound and the feel and the pain of a bullet tearing through his own muscles, tissue and sinew. But he did not remember who shot what bullet, and he did not remember if Richie died, or if he did.
But it did not matter, for he was on the floor, pain exploding through his shoulder and left arm, and he heard Asher on the phone, explaining to the police that someone had tried to break inside her home and that he was hurt. He heard Asher answer the police questions, politely decline riding to the hospital, giving a phone number to be reached, should they have more questions. Richie stood next to her, his shirt still bloody, assuring the medical personal that the blood was not his.
But, of course, it was. Samuel Clarke said nothing of this, only lifted his head, in the seconds before he was lifted into the ambulance, and he caught Asher's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Asher shook her head, although her expression was less hard. "Bullshit," she whispered back, and the ambulance's door closed. Richie closed an arm around her waist, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. "I love you," she whispered to him.
"I love you too," responded Richie, kissing her temple, leading her inside.
A hot shower and clean clothes later, Richie and Asher sat, curled around one another, on the couch, watching a fire burn low, watching the tree light twinkle. Dinner still lay forgotten. "Asher?" asked Richie tentively.
"Yes?"
"Why did you do it?"
It was a long time before Asher answered, and Richie began to wonder if she had heard the question. "Do you know the word oneirophobia, Richie?"
"No."
"It means a fear of dreams. I told you this house represented my childhood memories, my childhood dreams, and my childhood fears. Well, so did Sam."
Richie nodded. He did not understand fully, but he understood enough. And, he had a lifetime to understand the rest. He sighed, smiled against her hair. "Asher?" he whispered.
But no answer came. He looked down to her, seeing her asleep. He smiled. He and she had a lifetime. He would ask her in the morning if she had finished her song.
December 24, 2005, 900 PM, Asher's childhood home, Switzerland
He silenced the engine. Up ahead, Samuel Clarke could see the Christmas tree through the window, lights twinkling against the night sky, and he knew somewhere within the house were Asher and Richie. He would end this tonight-he had to end this tonight.
One way, or another.
He had learned long ago not to be picky.
Securing his gun beneath his coat, Samuel Clarke exited the car, with his hands stuffed in the pockets; he shuffled along the front walk, lifting his hand to knock on the door. Richie answered the door, his face still flushed, and his eyes still bright.
"Oh, it's you," he grimaced. "Merry Christmas, I suppose."
"Merry Christmas. Is Asher home?"
Samuel Clarke saw Richie sweep his hand back, saw his eyebrows race and the two cautious steps he took backwards. Samuel Clarke pushed his way inside, knowing Richie knew. He sighed. "I promise when this is all over, Ryan, you will still be standing. My fight is with Asher."
"Your fight is with yourself, Clarke." Richie sighed, his eyes suddenly less brighter. "Asher is in the kitchen."
Samuel knew Richie followed his steps, but he knew it did not matter. Asher stood at the window, a wide smile on her face, and a slow grin spread across Samuel Clarke's own face. "Merry Christmas, Asher," he greeted, and he laughed, when Asher whirled around, shock written on her face.
"Merry Christmas, Sam." She paused. "Why are you here?"
"I've come to offer my condolences on your loss, Ashley. I regret to inform you that your grandfather passed away earlier today."
"Your doing?" she asked quietly, and Sam was only slightly surprised that her voice betrayed no emotion.
"How could you think such--?"
"You swore long ago, Sam. You would kill anyone to get to me. I never wanted to believe you."
"You do now?"
Asher frowned. "What other choice do I have?"
"Several, actually." He was all too aware that Richie had pushed his away in, looking threateningly in his direction, daring him to make the first move. He allowed a single mocking smile to grace his lips. "You could marry me, or you could kill me. Or, I could kill you."
"That was three, Sam. Several is more than four. Besides," she paused, gathering her breath, "I am already engaged. Richie asked me, and I said yes. I don't love you, Sam. Not anymore."
"I suppose that leaves us to the other two. Someone will die tonight, Ashley, and I assure you, it will not be me."
"Your assurances always were off."
Sam swore he saw regret in her eyes. But he barely blinked, only reached inside his coat, and pulled the gun, confident of the metal in his hand. He pointed the gun's mouth towards Richie. "I give you one more chance, Ashley. Come with me now, or he dies. Either way, this will end tonight."
"At least we agree there, Sam."
Weeks later, when a lawyer would ask Samuel Clarke exactly what happened, he would not say, for he did not know exactly. He remembered hearing the gun go off; he remembered seeing Richie clutching his chest, and he remembered him slinking to the ground, his blood marring the lower cabinets; he remembered Asher kneeling beside him, crying him; he remembered Asher turning to him with only anger in his eyes; and he remembered the sound and the feel and the pain of a bullet tearing through his own muscles, tissue and sinew. But he did not remember who shot what bullet, and he did not remember if Richie died, or if he did.
But it did not matter, for he was on the floor, pain exploding through his shoulder and left arm, and he heard Asher on the phone, explaining to the police that someone had tried to break inside her home and that he was hurt. He heard Asher answer the police questions, politely decline riding to the hospital, giving a phone number to be reached, should they have more questions. Richie stood next to her, his shirt still bloody, assuring the medical personal that the blood was not his.
But, of course, it was. Samuel Clarke said nothing of this, only lifted his head, in the seconds before he was lifted into the ambulance, and he caught Asher's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Asher shook her head, although her expression was less hard. "Bullshit," she whispered back, and the ambulance's door closed. Richie closed an arm around her waist, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. "I love you," she whispered to him.
"I love you too," responded Richie, kissing her temple, leading her inside.
A hot shower and clean clothes later, Richie and Asher sat, curled around one another, on the couch, watching a fire burn low, watching the tree light twinkle. Dinner still lay forgotten. "Asher?" asked Richie tentively.
"Yes?"
"Why did you do it?"
It was a long time before Asher answered, and Richie began to wonder if she had heard the question. "Do you know the word oneirophobia, Richie?"
"No."
"It means a fear of dreams. I told you this house represented my childhood memories, my childhood dreams, and my childhood fears. Well, so did Sam."
Richie nodded. He did not understand fully, but he understood enough. And, he had a lifetime to understand the rest. He sighed, smiled against her hair. "Asher?" he whispered.
But no answer came. He looked down to her, seeing her asleep. He smiled. He and she had a lifetime. He would ask her in the morning if she had finished her song.