AN: This story has been weighing me down and I need it off of my chest, so I've decided to put up the first chapter. No clue if I'll finish it… (Everyone knows that my track record with seeing things through to the finish isn't great). I have over 60k words written for it, but I hate about 58k of them.
Nightmare on Pennsylvania Avenue
Chapter one
…the feeling
Thursday, September 15th
6:46 pm
Elizabeth
It only seems to come in glimpses— tiny slivers of moments she can't recall, and when she wakes, she won't remember either. Although unknown at the time, though part of her somewhere had to have kept it all under lock and key, the memories she doesn't believe are memories are continuously tick tick ticking away at her subconscious, only to be forgotten when her eyelids flutter and the darkness fades away.
Most times she felt as if she were spinning, watching in amazement as strings were tied together, some fraying at the edges and failing to reach the next strand, while others knotted and connected, leading her on to the next piece.
She so often found herself gazing into a blanket of nothingness, mind struggling to keep up as the pieces that were begging to be put together were laid out in front of her feet, daring her to look closer as she stared out over the edge.
One misstep and it all fell away. One nick of a blade against even the thinnest of threads and the whole web of strings would unravel. One slip of a finger and you were left with a ruined song.
She regularly thought her habit of hesitation stemmed from those few months of failed piano lessons when she was young. Mrs. Marshall would stand over her, holding a wooden ruler in her right hand, waiting for the opportunity to bring it down against her knuckles. And having the fear of being left with blotchy skin, with red and burning hands, the habit of second-guessing the keys developed about a week into those hours spent practicing after school.
She swore she could still feel the ache in her fingers from the strain of playing, along with the stiffness that built in her neck from staring down at the keys.
The sleekness of the grand piano that sat in her parents' living room was what had first attracted her to the idea of learning. She still remembers the first time she let her fingers aimlessly run up and down the keyboard, first wandering through the naturals before pressing down on the sharps and flats. And the shininess, the stark black of the flat and sharp keys reminded her of the black of the leather— the wing-tipped shoes that were barely there, and the soft footfalls on the carpet.
It was then that she felt the first strain of the grip. There were fingers wrapping around, thumbs pressing down against the middle of her throat. It feels like barbed wire, almost like razor blades cutting in as she swallowed. And her breath is being stolen as—
As her eyes blink open, and the ceiling comes into view. The feeling falls away, but she still finds herself gasping for a breath.
"Are you alright?" Comes the worried voice.
Her heart pounds against her chest as she stares up at the crown molding. And she squeezes her eyes closed in one last effort to hang on to the visions that had just played out behind her eyes.
When his fingers brush against her skin, palm running up from her ankle to her knee, she realizes what she's trying to hang onto is long gone, fallen away somewhere in the midst of the nonexistent. And she wants to lash out, blame him for another forgotten dream, but at this point, she thinks there's nothing to be forgotten after all.
She huffs as she pushes herself up to sitting, letting her elbows dig into the cushions of the couch.
"Bad dream," she mumbles as she leans back against the arm of the sofa. She wonders why she'd chosen to use the word bad when she was unable to pick out even the smallest piece of an image that her mind had conjured up.
"You've been having a lot of those recently."
Her eyes lift up to his. The pinch that had made its way into the middle of his brow was hard to miss. The frown that tugged at his lips, the tension he held in his shoulders, and the stillness of his posture at where he sat in the corner of the couch by her feet expressed his worry better than words ever could.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
Even if she wanted to, she couldn't. "I—" She shakes her head. She pulls one of the throw pillows— the grey one with green trim to her chest, and her fingers interlace over the middle as she leans into the cushion. "I don't remember." At least this time it was the truth.
And as she stares at his face that still holds an expression of concern, her eyes dip to the notebook he holds in his hands— the page he's flipped to was half-covered in black ink. He must catch her gaze because he tucks a finger under the flap and pulls the cover over the pages of paper.
When she looks back to his eyes, he gives a small smile before he leans forward and slides the notebook onto the coffee table. He leaves the bottom half of it jutting out over the edge. She wonders if it were notes for his lecture tomorrow. She remembers him mentioning something about wanting to incorporate a writing piece by E.M. Forster. Before she has the chance to ask, he's sitting back and taking her right foot into his hands, kneading his thumbs into her arch.
"Dr. Sherman called while you were asleep," he tells her.
She pushes away the pillow she had clutched in her arms before leaning back into the corner of the couch. Her lips pulled downwards. "Really?"
He nods. He drops her right foot only to tap her left knee, urging her to straighten out her leg so he could work on her other foot. "She wanted to schedule you in for a session tomorrow."
She hadn't seen Kinsey in over a month. They both, after a long discussion and a lot of progress on her part, had come to the decision to go ahead and leave her appointments on an as-needed basis. She felt she'd learned a handful of helpful coping techniques to not only manage the day-t0-day feelings of anxiety but also when she experienced a PTSD episode. As she walked out of Kinsey's office that day, she'd made a promise to herself that she would seek help if she felt she couldn't handle working through a feeling on her own.
"That's odd."
He lets her foot fall back down to the sofa.
"I think the tune-up sessions are a good idea," he says.
He'd been a part of those discussions with Kinsey. Although ultimately it wasn't his choice to make, he had agreed that he thought she was okay to stop the biweekly sessions.
"I don't disagree it's just—"
"Dinner's ready."
She twists around to see Stevie hovering in the doorway, one hand braced against the doorframe as she leans into the room. And she gives what looks like a forced smile before she turns and disappears back through the dining room.
"Look—" Henry begins as he pushes up off the sofa. "Don't feel like you have to go."
When he offers out a hand, she shoves the blue wool blanket from her lap and reaches out to him. He lugs her up to her feet.
"No," she mutters as she follows a pace behind towards the kitchen. "I haven't been in a while, and it couldn't hurt right?"
He glances back over his shoulder and smiles.
"Though, Blake may freak over upending the schedule," she says as she steps up to the island, running an eye over the pots, pans, and stirring spoons that line the stove. When the kids chose to cook there always seemed to be a much larger pile of dirty dishes that needed washing.
She feels a hand brush against her arm and— "I'm sure he'll understand."
"Yeah," she mumbles. When his touch falls away, she leans into the counter and reaches over towards one of the saucepans so she can run a finger up the side of the pot. She pulls back and sucks the sauce from the tip of her finger. "Mhm."
Somedays she didn't know what she'd be getting when the kids decided to take over the kitchen. Some nights, meatless Mondays mostly, she'd find herself sneaking back downstairs for a snack, sometimes even ordering up a pizza with extra pepperoni.
And the hand that was just on her arm finds its way to her lower back. "Good?"
She dips her finger down for another taste. "Keep the antacids handy."
He smiles and this one actually seems to reach his eyes. She can tell by the way his skin pulls at the corners; the way his crow's feet appeared more pronounced. Before she can taste test any of the other dishes that cover the counter, he gives a friendly shove towards the table.
Silverware clanks against wood as Alison distributes a fork and knife to each of the place settings. And as Stevie leans over the table, setting a side dish next to the main pan of noodles, Jason's already reaching a serving spoon into the bowl of broccoli.
Her lips tug up at the corners. "Hey Baby," she mumbles as she steps behind her son. She brings a hand up, letting her fingers run through his hair. She can't help but frown when she notices the way he leans away from her touch. Her hand falls to his shoulder.
"Hi," he grumbles.
When she catches the slight grimace on his lips, she shoots Henry a sideways glare. All he gives is a shrug as his fingers wrap around the top of the chair.
She gives Jason's shoulder a squeeze before taking her seat next to her husband.
"This smells absolutely delicious," she says as she pulls her chair in.
"New recipe. Creamy spinach tomato pasta." Alison smiles.
"Ali did most of the work."
Her eyes follow Stevie as she hands off the bowl of bread to her brother.
"Well, it looks great." After Henry hands over the spoon, she leans in and takes a generous helping of the pasta onto her plate.
She was craving carbs. She was glad the kids were on the same page. As she whirls a noodle around her fork, she can feel the heat rising up from her plate. When she takes a bite into her mouth, she thinks the long day fussing with Russell Jackson was almost worth it.
"It tastes as good as it smells," she says around her mouthful.
~MS~
10:09 pm
She wets the pad of her thumb before flicking to the next page. She makes it about halfway through the top paragraph before she lets the binder drop to the pillow settled atop her lap so she can work the crick out of her neck. Her fingertips are pressing into her skin when she hears his feet pad against the hardwood as he walks from the bathroom.
"You should really choose some lighter bedtime reading," he jokes as he pulls back the covers.
The corners of her lips pull up as she lets her back slide down just a bit against the headboard, so she's now hunched.
"If the fiscal budget can't put me out nothing can." She makes a show out of flipping to the next page.
"I suggest a puzzle."
She smiles as she watches him slip underneath the sheets. After he settles back into the pillows, nearly mirroring her, he takes the notebook he'd been writing in downstairs into his lap.
"Jason's really okay?" She asks just as he takes a pen to the lined paper.
He gives her a glance over the thick frames of his glasses before his gaze returns to his lap. "He's just being a teenager, Babe. He'll be fine."
She arches a brow. "Will be?"
"Is," he says. "He is fine," he corrects.
She nods, still staring at the side of his face.
He catches her out of the corner of his eye. "You alright?"
She shakes her head. "It's silly," she says as her fingers grip the edges of the binder. "I just have the strangest feeling that I'm forgetting something."
He reaches out and pats her arm. "I think you should get some sleep."
"Yeah," she mumbles.
