Disclaimer: *looks over story* Hey! All this is mine! Woo hoo! It's a different style and voice than is normal for me.

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Arioch 6: Nightmare

Ever have one of those dreams? The dreams that are so real you can't tell they're dreams? The little details make it real: the wind on your face, the smell of cooking odors from restaurants, hearing the pounding of your own footsteps on the cracked pavement. Your shoes pinch. The stranger walking toward you has a disfiguring scar across his face.

Every single aspect in the dream is so focused, when you do snap awake sweaty and disoriented, reality feels wrong. And then the images won't dissipate, no matter how hard you try. Persistent little bastards.

Ever have a dream like that?

I do. All the time. Not every night, thank god. I've found a way to keep my personal incubus at bay. Of course, it's killing me slowly, but hey—I can live with that. Unfortunately, there are times it doesn't work.

My demon came again tonight.

Fucker.

Shaking, fondling my pearl-handled butterfly knife as if it's a crucifix, I press myself as hard as I can into my mattress. Slowly my sweat is drying, leaving me cold.

Against my feverish wishes, my mind replays the vision over and over and over, as if seeing it with my eyelids closed wasn't enough . . .

. . . the stranger walking towards me has a disfiguring scar across his face. Normally I keep my head down, trying to avoid anyone's attention. It's safer that way, as a girl, and it's one of the first things I learned living on the streets. Too many girls never get the chance to try again if they don't learn the lesson quick.

I've been lucky—I haven't been snatched up by a pimp, and I've been smart enough to not get dependent on crack or heroin or Special K or anything else making its rounds on the streets. I'm not saying that I haven't turned tricks or taken a hit, I'm just saying I've been lucky, and just try to slip by anyone's notice.

The scarred guy sees me look, though. His dead white eye, injured by the slash mark, mimics the functional one, sizing me up and down. An ugly grin splits his face in the other direction.

His appraisal makes my mouth dry, because I've seen that predatory expression before. He can tell I'm nervous, and elbows his companion, pointing in my direction.

I don't wait around to figure out what they want. I turn tail and bolt.

My shoes pinch painfully as I run. I dodge around pedestrians, running as fast as I can. The sounds of heavy footsteps follow me. As well as I know this part of the city, my brain seems numb. I don't know where to run to be safe.

What chance does a 14 year old girl have against two full grown men, anyway?

Still, the survival instinct is strong, and I give it my best. Part of me is still fantasizing about my escape when a broad hand tangles itself in my hair and yanks me backward.

Another hand clasps over my mouth, muting my outcry. Panicked, I struggle and kick. My efforts are met with laughter. Even as I labor to break free I'm dragged into an alley.

Through my fear and sweat, I can see the passersby ignoring my plight. No one seems to see what's happening, going on their way without a second thought. No one takes responsibility, no one cares what happens to a street rat—as long as it doesn't concern them.

The realization of that makes me more nauseous than knowing what was going to happen to me in the back of the alley.

I'm forced to the end of the alley, behind the industrial dumpsters. Out of sight of anyone who might care that two men were beating and raping a young girl. The scarred man watches as his companion knocks me down with a fist to my face. I hear rather than feel the bones in my nose break, and instantly I'm covered in blood.

Again, I start to fight back, but a knife is pressed under my ear.

"Feel that, bitch?" a guttural voice spits in my face. Carefully I nod. "You move, you get stuck. Got it?"

Carefully I nod again, trying not to whimper.

"Let's see what kinda titties you got under those rags," he says, ripping away my shirt. He fondles me roughly.

Suddenly this seems surreal. I lay passively, as if no longer in control of my own actions. Everything seems distant, even as it is happening.

The guy grins lewdly in my face. "You got little titties. I bet that means your pussy's pretty tight too. Maybe not a virgin, but close enough, eh?" He can suddenly see that I'm not with him. I only stare blankly back. "Fuckin' bitch!"

Somewhere in my mind I realize I'm making him angrier by not fighting back. It doesn't seem to matter. He forces my legs apart with a knee. He attempts to tear though my pants, but they're sturdier than my shirt. With one hand holding the knife to my throat, he can't coordinate the other enough to be effective.

"Hey!" he calls over his shoulder to the scarred man, who has observed all this. "Git over here and do your job!"

As he shuffles over, I realize the blade has been removed from my neck. It startles me through my haze. Slowly, real emotion creeps back into me. I abruptly feel sweaty and cold with fear. Buried far far below is a little ember of rage.

The guy atop me notices. "See, my friend here is a mutant," he tells me in a conversational tone. "Even a fuckin' piece of street trash knows what a mutant is, don't you?" He continues without waiting for my answer. "He paralyzes people. Just by touchin' them—isn't that wild? And he likes to watch little girls get fucked hard.

"I'm just the man to do that for him. We make a pretty good pair, don't we?"

This time I want to answer, to scream and spit and kick, but at that instant the scarred man takes my wrists.

It is true. He holds my arms lightly, almost tenderly.

And. I. Can't. Move.

I've never felt as panicked before in my life as I do when he paralyzes me. I can't even swallow the blood filling my throat from my broken nose. I can feel my pants being pulled down finally, and hear little grunts of excitement as the man works his way between my thighs again.

The disfigured guy fills my vision as he leaned over me and grins.

Panic ignites the spark of anger in the back of my brain. Internally I howl, fanning the flame. The pain of being entered makes it explode.

Because I can't close my eyes, I watch the blinding white light erupt from my body. It encompasses myself and the two men. Accompanied by a sound that shatters the windows two stories above us and shakes the ground, the bastards are blown away from me.

The instant the mutant's contact with my skin is broken, I'm free. The light and sound are gone. I roll over, choking, coughing the clots of blood out. I lay still, trying to catch my breath.

What just happened?

I'm finally able to sit up. The men are sprawled across the alley, unmoving. The normal guy's knife was blown from his hand, and I crawl to it. I cradle it to my chest.

Still not understanding what happened, I pull my clothes around me again. I cautiously make my way to the mutant's side. He's unconscious.

Bitterness leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and the spark of anger flares again. With a quick motion, before I have a chance to think, the blade in my hand flashes out and punctures through the lid of his good eye. The pain awakens him, but now he's more concerned with his blindness than grabbing me.

I make my way to his companion, and stab both his eyes. As he screams, I spit in his face.

Their screams follow me as I limp my way out of the alley . . .

. . . their screams follow me as I jerk myself awake at night. I always sleep with the little pearl handled butterfly knife I swiped from that prick, as if it could save me from the demon memory.

It never does.

I don't know why I can't convince myself it's actually a good dream-memory: I got away, and I learned I have a mutation that will protect me, even involuntarily. I also learned a little something about myself . . . I can coldly, easily, take someone's sight. I can coldly, easily, take someone's life. I've used that knowledge to provide my livelihood.

Oh.

Fucker.

Where is that whiskey?