A/N: Thankyou to everyone who read the first chapter. I am a live-in nanny to four kids under five, so updates will take a while. But they will happen.
[Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I offiliated with the Rizzoli and Isles franchise. Any characters and/or ideas associated with the show as of 16th September, 2014, are not mine. Anything else is mine.]
TRIGGER WARNING: NIGHTMARES AND NON-DESCRIPT MENTIONS OF ASSAULT
The edges of my vision are clouded, as if inside my head a thick fog has just rolled in. the room is dark, this much I can tell.
Dark and dank.
Water drips from rotting pipes as stale air ghosts over my face.
And that is when I feel it; feel him.
His body is flush against mine, his face mere inches from my own.
I can feel him, but not see him.
My eyes will not open.
There is movement on top of me.
He is closer now, his hot breath right next to my ear.
And then a voice, one that instantly sends a chill down my spine.
"Jane," the man breathes.
I am paralysed, fear rocking me to the core.
"I know you're awake. I can smell it."
I wait for him to say it, to confirm what I already know.
"Lavender and fear."
Hoyt.
"Open your eyes, Janie," he coos. "I wouldn't want you to miss the show."
Against my better judgement my eyelids slowly crack apart, allowing the dullest of lights to filter in through the darkness.
And then I see him, looming over me.
The Surgeon.
My very own Grim Reaper.
And before I can stop it, a whimper escapes my lips.
"Oh Janie," he sighs. "I missed you."
Bile rises in my throat as he reaches behind him. If I had my wits about me I would have thought to move, but as it stands, I am not syre I could have.
My limbs feel trapped. A quick inspection reveals no tape; no bindings.
'Move, Jane,' I tell myself. 'Move.'
When Hoyt turns back my blood runs cold.
Scalpel.
That's all I can see.
His scalpel and that demonic smile.
"Take a deep breath now, Janie," he sneers, raising the weapon.
Panic burns white hot in my veins.
'Move!' my mind screams. 'God-dammit! MOVE!'
It's no use.
Hoyt draws in a slow, deliberate breath, eyes closed, scalpel raised just above his head.
"Move," I hear myself beg.
And then it plummets, piercing my left palm just as suddenly as my scream pierces the air.
…
What starts as muffled moans and slight twitching soon becomes whimpered pleas and spasmodic movements as the full weight of the nightmare bears down on the detective.
Awaking with a start, there is a moment of complete stillness before Jane propels herself forward. In the same motion she frantically scoots backward until her back is flush against the headboard.
Her eyes move rapidly, desperately searching for ghosts of the past, while her left hand seeks the light switch.
Seconds bleed into minutes as the shaken woman curls in on herself, still sweating profusely.
Nimble fingers worry over raised scars, soothing away the cramps that always follow sleep.
As always, her hands hurt.
It is 3:02am and her hands hurt.
It is 3:06 am and she has stopped sweating.
It is 3:08a, and she has started shivering.
It is 3:11am and she has decided to go for a run.
...
Seven miles later and Jane could finally feel the anxiety seeping from her pores and dripping from her body, in much the same fashion as the sweat pouring from her furrowed brow.
Her late-night pilgrimage had taken her from Revere, through Charlestown and finally to the Boston Garden in the North End. From here, she could see the edges of Beacon Hill, and the start of the Boston Common, her destination tonight.
She had made good time, her legs using pent up emotion as fuel. A little over an hour had past since her sudden awakening and she felt almost as good as new.
Stopping by the Make Way for Ducklings statue to stretch, Jane was reminded why this was one of the favourite places on Earth.
During the day, when tourists lines these paths, joining queues for swan boat rides while children chased squirrels and locals walked their dogs, these gardens came alive.
And at night, when most of the city was sleeping, the Gardens were at peace.
Jane was at peace.
Taking in a deep breath of the crisp Bostonian air, the detective started to walk toward the Common.
So wrapped up in her thoughts, she barely noticed the man who followed her over the crosswalk, nor did she take note of his gradual movement to close the space between them.
And when she did, well, by then it was far too late.
A/N: Just a short fill-in chapter. Hope it was enjoyable.