Connor was used to bad dreams. Ever since the tender age of ten, when his mother decided to commit suicide by jumping off the roof of their three storey house, Connor was pretty used to nightmares. Truth was, he'd had them even as a small kid, though then they were about monsters hiding under his bed, of loud voices screaming words that weren't making sense. Once he dreamt about a strange woman all in red, who came into his room and just took him from his home. He didn't see her face, but he could hear his mother screaming from behind the door of his closet not to leave with her. It was one of those dreams that kept repeating, and Connor always woke up screaming. They stopped the night his mom jumped. After that, he never dreamt of the lady in red... only of his mom.
Right now, he was back in his childhood bedroom, sitting on his bed, just waiting. It was dark outside, and the house was quiet, too quiet. The only thing he could hear was the rapid beating of his own heart, could feel it thumping hard inside his chest, all up to his head.
"Hello? Claire? Dad?" he asked, ostensibly in a child's voice, and he knew he was ten again and that the house was empty. He felt empty inside too. There was no one to talk to, no one to hug him. He felt alone and scared and it was stupid because he wasn't a child anymore and he should be able to do something, anything, to stop that feeling, but ever since Sam left and David Downey passed away, he felt like there's no one to turn to.
The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps and Connor jerked, his heart pausing for a second, everything just stopping. The footsteps were heavy and coming closer, unfamiliar and strangely daunting. They meant danger, and Connor suddenly jumped off his bed and ran towards the door. Touching the doorknob he hesitated. Should he hide in his room or try to run? What was waiting for him outside this room, outside this house? He slowly turned the doorknob and with bated breath peeked through the small opening. The hall outside was painted in darkness, the only light coming from the stairwell at the end of it. All the doors were closed and looking much bigger and heavier than Connor remembered. The only window outside he could see from his spot was black as ink, not even a flicker of stars or moon showing through. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Before Connor could find the courage to open the door all the way and run into the hall, the footsteps became louder, and he spotted a shadow moving from the stairs. Gasping, Connor shut the door, wishing for a lock that didn't exist. Anything to block the door.
"Dad... please... where are you?" he asked, frantically looking around his room for some weapon or a way out. His eyes spotted the chair in the corner, and he quickly maneuvered it against the door, though even he realized how flimsy a barricade it was. There was a thump of a door being kicked open and the footsteps vanished inside. He didn't have much time. Grabbing his baseball bat from the shelf, he suppressed the sudden chills when his hand touched the smooth wood. Connor gave one last look at the chair, then went inside his closet and closed the door. He hid between old coats that oddly smelled of a disinfectant and that didn't belong there, but at least they offered some hiding space. Connor burrowed himself in the farthest corner, holding the baseball bat like a lifeline, and counting down the seconds before he heard the footsteps again.
"Eleven... twelve..." There was a creak and a thud. The doorknob on his room turned slowly and the door started to open, until it hit the chair blocking its way. Someone cursed and Connor closed his eyes tightly. It was just a dream, just a bad dream. It would go away. He would wake up. "Please, wake up," he muttered under his breath, wishing with all his heart he would. There was a loud knock, then the sound of wood breaking and splinters flying.
Connor froze. He heard breathing that wasn't coming from him, just inches in front of the door to his closet. He could smell the stink of sweat and rage, all rolled up nicely into an odor of oncoming tragedy.
"You can't hide, boy. I will get you." The voice was scratchy and desperate. It spoke in a whisper and Connor had never heard anything scarier in his life. "I lost my son and it's all your fault. You ran him over with a car like a rabid dog. That baseball bat you're clutching is his. I won't let anyone save you boy, not this time. You're mine and you'll pay."
With that, the door to the closet opened. Connor felt the stale breath right against his chin. Despite the horror, he slowly, oh so slowly, opened his eyes, to look in the face of death. He thought he would see an enraged man, a person with crazy eyes, or a faceless figure washed in dark with eyes leading straight to hell. What he saw instead made him let go of the baseball bat. Connor's eyes went wide as he looked into the face of the woman in red. The second the bat hit the floor and the woman reached out for him, Connor started screaming.
It was close to midnight, and Amy was going over her patients charts, while humming to herself quietly. Kathrin, the other nurse that was on shift, had just popped out for a quick smoke - or rather a long call to her boyfriend. Most of the patients in the SNICU were fast asleep. Amy looked at the clock on the computer that showed she still had five more minutes until she needed to wake up Mrs. Riley for her concussion check. The unit was quiet, except for the hushed beeping of machines and the rustling of bed sheets. Amy paused her humming and looked up. Her sixth sense told her something was wrong and she looked around, trying to find the source of her concern. Her eyes somehow instinctively zoned in on the bed with Dr. Rhodes. For a moment he was still, his chest paused mid-breath, face ashen, looking dead. Amy blinked and she was on her feet and by the bed before she even realized it, one of her hands reaching to Connor's wrist and the pulse point, while her eyes looked at the monitor showing that although not ideal, his vitals were still there.
Connor let out a shaky breath, along with something that sounded suspiciously close to a whine. His eyes were closed, but Amy could see the rapid eye movements. His breathing was getting faster and a bit uneven, the skin under Amy's fingers cold and clammy. It looked like he was in the middle of a nightmare, but Amy didn't like the numbers the monitor was showing. Although strange dreams with a head injury weren't anything new, the nightmares usually didn't help the patients to recuperate any quicker.
While Amy debated whether to wake him or not, Connor tossed on the bed, as if he was trying to run away. His right hand clutched the bed railing tightly, the other burrowed in the sheets. He started muttering numbers and started tossing his head from side to side, moaning.
"Dr. Rhodes, I need you to wake up." She spoke gently, her hand squeezing his wrist, but he didn't react, lost too deeply in whatever nightmare he was having. She muttered a curse, seeing his heart rate rocketing up. She could see he was scared or in pain and on the verge of hyperventilating.
"Come on Connor, don't make me bring out the big guns. No one likes a sternal rub," she spoke to him and he froze. For a second she thought that was it, and he was awake, but then he whimpered and moved his head.
"Connor, wake up," she commanded sternly and without another thought, reached out and touched his cheek. Several things happened at the same moment. The monitor went crazy, beeping its warning, even as Connor screamed in fright, eyes snapping open and he bolted upright, sitting up straight in the bed. Amy yelped and jumped back, startled. Connor was gasping for breath, cold sweat running down his face and soaking through the flimsy hospital gown. His eyes were wide, staring right at Amy, and she was truly taken aback by all the fear she saw there.
"D-Dr. Rhodes?" she asked slowly, trying to get her own breath back. She felt true relief when she saw some of the recognition return to those dark eyes. 'A bit too dark,' she thought as she looked at the unnaturally dilated pupils on her patient's face.
"It's me, Amy. Do you know where you are?" she asked calmly, her hand returning to his wrist as much to provide comfort as to check his pulse without the need to look away to the monitor.
Connor blinked.
"Connor. Can you tell me where you are?"
He heard the voice and saw the slightly familiar and very blurry face. He kept blinking, trying to clear his vision, even as the world seemed to double. He looked around and was relieved to see no red. The woman in the red dress was gone. This wasn't his childhood home anymore, and he wasn't being chased by crazy people. He was sitting in a bed, in a "hospital," he muttered to himself, not even realizing that was the question Amy asked.
"Good. Now I need you to calm down a bit. Can you slow your breathing for me?" the woman next to him asked, and Connor gave a small nod of his head. He was already trying to slow his breathing, but it was next to impossible with the way his heart kept beating. His lungs were just starved for more oxygen. He gasped and curled his arm around his heaving chest. It felt like there was no oxygen and his head, god, his head hurt like never before. Connor moaned and put his head against his knees, rocking slowly. There was a rhythm to the pain, the rhythm of his heart pumping blood inside his brain. He could almost hear it sloshing around. Something was wrong and he didn't know how to fix it, so he kept rocking and moaning until a pair of hands stopped him.
Amy watched the numbers on the monitor going from bad to worse. She could see that Connor was either having a panic attack or there was something seriously wrong. First, she needed to try and calm him down, and get his breathing under control. She put her arm between Connor's chest and his knees, prying him away from the uncomfortable position and pushing him down to lay on his back. He was already curled up again, though this time at least he was lying down and on his side, when Amy managed to put the oxygen mask on his face. She kept muttering soothing words to him as she checked his IV and vitals, and assured herself that he was at least getting enough oxygen, before focusing on the real problem.
"Connor, can you tell me what's wrong? What hurts?" She had to repeat the question several times before he opened his eyes a slit. One of his hands came up to clutch at the side of his head.
"Head? Is it worse than it was before?"
He nodded and closed his eyes, another moan escaping his throat. Amy nodded and gently squeezed his shoulder in support. It was time to call in the doctor from the night shift.