Lydia lay sprawled on the floor, cuts and bruises peppering her fair skin. The past few hours had all been dark and soundless; after coming back into consciousness – or what passed for it in this dream-world – all she remembered was the pain.

Physical and psychological.

"You know what, babes?" he asked, across the blank white room and picking his nails with a bloodied blade. "Do me a favor and just don't say it. I'm having way too much fun."

She coughed up dark blood and watched it spray out over the pure white floor. For the slightest moment, she was worried about staining it and getting in trouble. Then, realizing how absurd her thoughts were, she even laughed a little.

"What's so funny?"

She grimaced and tried to push herself up. "Why?"

"Hmm?" He turned, surprised to hear her speak. "Why what?"

Losing energy, she collapsed back on the floor, breathing hard. "What's the point of…letting you free…when you're already raising hell in my head?"

He walked over and looked down at her with disgust. "You really don't get it. I don't give a rat's ass about getting out anymore. It's all about you, Lyds."

Shuddering, she let out the first tear since everything had gone black. God, then this was it? He'd torment her until he really did drive her insane or she died. That was it. She really should have just listened to him at first.

"What would happen?" she managed.

He looked up with a contemplative countenance. "Oh, I don't know. A quick trip to City Hall, we say our vows, I get out, I kill you, and you get to pass on because the Neitherworld only takes mistakes."

She held her breath. "What?"

"Yeah. Murders go somewhere else. I don't know really where. And I really, really don't care. But if you wanna hang around the living plane and keep this up, then please, have a ball."

Lydia rolled over onto her back and stared at the white ceiling, her eyes filled with unshed tears and her skin burning with pain. Her head was pounding in her skull and all she wanted to do was have it all stop. "I feel…tingly," she whispered.

"What?"

"My…head's reeling. What's-…"

Everything was muted and dark. Pale blue filmy walls surrounded her and the only light was gold and beyond the barrier around her. Voices murmured from a distance and her ears were ringing.

Lydia rolled her head from side to side, letting out a breathy sigh. Was she…was she really awake? Or was this another dream?

Suddenly the azure curtain beside her was pulled away and she beheld the two nurses from last night. They grabbed the gurney and pulled her to the service elevator, where they climbed a few stories before getting out. They wheeled her into a cheery, pale-white room, where they laid her in a real bed and opened the window.

Lydia sniffed the air, elated at just the simple scent of the outdoors. Birds were singing outside. There was grass. The sky was just so clear…

"Lydia, pumpkin?"

Her father's voice. She turned to see his careworn face, smiling a bit at her. She gave him a tired, beaming look and reached for his hand. "Dad…I'm awake!"

"Yeah, honey. I know. Are you feeling ok?" His haggard eyes pleaded for a positive answer, but she read between the lines and furrowed her brows in question.

"Are you…hung-over?"

He faltered. "Well…a little. I was just so worried, you know? But please, Lydia. Are you ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Nice to hear it, Lydia. Well, look at this place! It's simply dreary. It needs some color." Delia's voice invaded the quiet room and her stepmother's figure came into focus, carrying a pile of harsh, bright-hued items that she began to hang on the walls. They were impressionistic paintings that looked like they belonged in a children's classroom for the obviously color-blind.

"My God, Delia. Can't you see she's still recovering? Put those away; they'll burn her retinas!" Charles demanded.

"Well, I'm sorry for trying to cheer her up through art!"

"The last time you tried to cheer anyone up with art, it attacked us and held us hostage while our daughter was almost married to the dead!"

The humor in her parent's spat was instantly lost on Lydia when her father mentioned that ill-fated day. She receded into herself, ignoring the remained of their argument until finally her father touched her hand.

"Lydia, if you're tired, we understand. We'll let you sleep."

At his words, she tensed up and pleaded. "No! No, I don't want to sleep! Please, don't give me any more pills!"

"Of course not, pumpkin!" he assured, confused at her paranoia. "We wouldn't force you to."

"Only if the doctor told us to," Delia chimed in, meaning the best but unfortunately coming out heartless.

Lydia sighed and leaned back once again. She was safe…for now. He was still in her head; she felt him. But as long as she was awake, he might as well be halfway around the world. He couldn't touch her.

Exhausted and so very comfortable, by the time she realized it she was already falling back to sleep.

As soon as she came back into her dream-world consciousness, someone backhanded her across the face and she flew backwards, landing hard on the ground.

"Where do you get off waking up?" he snarled, advancing. "Just where do you get the nerve to just blow me off? I was talkin' to you, dammit! And I thought I was rude!"

She began to cry. It was so unfair! No matter how often she seemed to escape him, she always ended up back here.

"Better get used to it, babes. You can run as far as you can, but I'm always gonna be in your head." Reaching down, he grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her to her feet.

"Why can't you just let go?" he taunted, shoving her backwards. "Geez, Lyds. You keep obsessing over this stuff, it's gonna drive you nuts. Just give up!"

He pushed her up against a wall and held her upper arms tight. Close to her face, he whispered, "Just say it."

And because she was so hurt, inside and outside, and was so tired, and was ready for whatever else the future held besides pain and torture and fear, Lydia finally threw back her head and screamed it.

"Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!"

Just like he said she would.