Marion thrashed around in her stiff, uncomfortable bed like a feral animal, the small amount of light streaming through the curtains as she groaned painfully. Marion was never one to have nightmares often, but even since she had arrived at Farringham, she'd been getting them frequently, the next always worst than the last.
Waking up suddenly, she subconsciously flew into a up right position, leaning back on her hands as she looked around the room frantically. Finding she was back in the safety of her small, dimly lit quarters, she gave a sigh of relief. Stupid dreams... she thought bitterly as she threw the covers off, her bare feet hitting the cold ground. Nightmares she corrected herself. Shaking her head, she tip toed toward the curtains, drawing them back fully, the light eliminating her.
The light eliminated her, her and the people behind; her team. The spotlight moved so it was directly on top of the small party of four, waiting for them to make their next move. "Rose, get down!" called a deep, male voice, not able to do as the man said as she was thrown to the ground, her arms instinctively going to her head for protection as a load gunshot flew through the dark, barren wasteland.
Marion looked away from the window as the awful part of the nightmare replayed in her mind. That was one of the many reasons she hated sleeping. Her subconscious was always plagued with these horrifying images, telling a story each time. Only this time, names were spoken.
A large man walked through a small, metal like cabin, a large knife in his hands as four men guarded the doors, guns at the ready. Two people were stuff to metal chairs, tied to the gritty legs, which was painfully cold against the woman's skin, her hair knotted, mangled and red ever since they were captured. Her partner, a dark skinned young man, was more or less in the same predicament. The man circled them, brandishing the knife until he turned to the young man sitting calmly in the chair. "I will only ask you this one more time," he said with a thick accent, placing the sharp, cold edge of the object to the man throat. "Who do you work for?"
The woman struggled against her bonds, gritting her teeth as the young man eyed his tormentor. "Don't tell him, Mickey!" she exclaimed, receiving a hard slap across the face from one of the armed guards.
The man turned to her, a strange, creepy smile plastered on his face. He turned to her fully, fingering the knife. Slowly, he placed the knife to her cheek, the tip on the blade cutting deeply into her skin. "I will ask once more," he began, thrusting the blade down the woman's neck, a great howl emitting from her lips as the blade retreated from her flesh, the blood already beginning to flow. "Who do you work for?"
Marion gently traced the ugly, red scar running down from her cheek to her neck, grimacing at the sudden shock of pain. Her nightmares were always so vivid and detailed that she didn't really gave a choice but wince at the fading presence of the edge of the knife.
She sat down on the messy bed as she bit her fingernails. This had been the last straw; this was where she'd snapped. She needed to talk to someone about these terrifying visions. And she knew just the person. Mister Smith was the only person who would understand, she repeated to herself as she dressed. True, her growing affection for the man most defiantly had some sort of influence on that remark, but she knew it was true. No one else in the school would even looked twice if she mention anything about dreams, but she felt that Mister Smith would.
Marion walked across the school's courtyard, watching quietly as many of the young boys fired at nearby dummies set up in the middle of the large, green field. Mister Smith was stood not too far away from them, instructing them what to do and to concentrate. Marion gave a sigh. She knew the man didn't like guns whatsoever, yet he was the one she always saw teaching the boys how to use them.
A few moments later, four of the young 'men' were dragging young Tim Latimer, a kind, polite boy who always willingly gave her a hand in the Library when ever she asked. What did he do to ever deserve a beating from his class mates? The very thought made Marion angry, especially with her own troubled thoughts of violence and pain. As she was staring idly over at the small lesson, all the while remembering the edge of the long, cold knife sliding down her sweaty skin, she vaguely noticed Mister Smith looking over to her, smiling. He dismissed his class, walking over to her immediately. "Marion," he greeted happily, his mood depleting when here sad expression stayed the same. "Is everything alright?" he asked.
Marion continued to stare at him for a long while, his own features becoming more concerned when she didn't answer. "I..." she started, stopping suddenly. "I just need someone to talk to. Sorry," she said, walking away quickly, bumping into the Matron as she felt John's eyes follow her through the courtyard, only leaving when Joan addressed him.
Marion and John walked into a small village lane, a man riding a tricycle passing right by them as Marion explained her vivid dreams to the professor as he listened intently, raising his dark hat in greeting at the passers. Marion wrapped her arms around herself as she spoke shakily, nearly hesitantly. "They're not just dreams, though," she started in an insistent tone. "They're memories, I know they are. They feel too... real to be just dreams." They walked into the village square, a small boy chucking a worn cricket ball up in the air repeatedly in boredom as he watched two men attempt to lift a piano into the air. "I was part of this... organisation, I think. Torchtree or something, I don't know," she trailed off, knowing the name wasn't correct but couldn't place her finger on the correct title. "I was able to put up with the nightmares 'till las' night. I remembered how I got this," she gestured her cheek, the long, white, puffy tissue sticking up. "It was so horrible, John. They were part of some military or something."
John walked quietly next to her, muttering, "You're angry at the army," he said as they walked. Marion nodded her head shamefully. "I remember being trained in every single way to fight, and I suppose I am angry that these boys have to do the same. If there's a war, I don't think they will find it very funny." Marion gave a sigh as they continued to walk through the small patch on green grass. Images of intense, muscle popping training ran through her mind, an instructor shouting at her to keep going even when she stumbled weakly in the wet mud. "Can I tell you something?" she asked quietly, John encouraging her on. "I think I remember fighting in a war," she admitted. "More than one, actually. It must sound strange to you, hearing this from a woman," she chuckled to herself, shaking her head. "Of course he'd find it strange.
John nodded mutely as he watched her. It was true - listening to this young woman claim she'd been in conflict was very difficult to hear. Women were not made to do that sort of work, or any work that involved death, at that fact. Especially those linked to warfare and... killing. To think that his innocent Marion had taken a life was almost unthinkable. "Mankind doesn't need warfare and bloodshed to prove itself - everyday life can provide honour and valour and... let's hope that from now on this... this country can... can find its heroes in smaller places..." he began stuttering calmly, watching as the two men who were raising the piano high in the air began to pant and stumble slightly, the rope becoming quickly worn as the middle began to snap. Not too far away, a woman- with a pram- began to walk along the same path the piano dangled dangerously over.
John, remembering the small boy beside them, grabbed the ball. He threw it in the general direction of the piano, the cracked sphere smashing loudly into a stack of silver poles. The ball fell clumsily to the ground, the poles following suit moments later. The poles came into hard contact with a large barrel, which in turn fell in front of the pram, stopping it instantly as the woman screamed in shock. The rope lifting the piano snapped, the heavy, black instrument falling to the ground, breaking into pieces at the sudden collision.
John stared at his heroics for a long few moment, Marion staring at him. "Lucky..." John stuttered as the woman began to comfort her crying infant, the two men rushing to her in apology and concern. John frowned inwardly. Where had that come from? He rarely played ball and any kind of sport as a child- in all honestly, he wasn't exceptionally good at sports now, either. Where had the sudden skill and accuracy come from?
"That was luck?" Marion said in disbelief as she turned her attention back to the mother, who was now placing her baby back into the unharmed buggy.
Feeling the strange kick of adrenaline coursing through his entire body, John turned to Marion, breathing quickly. "Marion," John said suddenly, getting her attention. "Might I invite you to the village dance this evening?" he asked. She rose her eyebrows in the sudden boldness, a rosy blush appearing on her cheeks. "As my guest," he added quickly, the idea of asking her now not seeming such a good idea at the fire of adrenaline was reduced to mere sparks.
Marion watched him for a few seconds, amused. She gave a chuckle and nodded as he returned her smile with mirth. "Yeah," she replied. "Why not?" The two watched as the woman led her buggy back up the street, the men picking pieces of the piano back up, looking at each other in worry. John linked his arm with Marion's as the two walked back toward the school, John feeling as though a whole load had been lifted off his shoulders.
A.N: Sorry if this chapter seems a bit... meh. It's half term for me for the next week, my plans mostly consisting of writing. But then my teachers were like 'Bitch please' and gave me mountains of homework :P So sorry again
