Chapter 3
three
. . .
Present Day
“August?” I mumble, rousing myself awake.
My head feels like it’s been stuffed with slowly expanding pillows, the pressure unbearable.
I blink a few times, searching for my best friend. She’s not here. Of course, she’s not. ParanormalAugust is no longer a joint venture.
I groan to myself, sitting up and rubbing the back of my head where I hit it on the ground.
What happened? What slammed into me? Was it a person?
It felt like a person. But I would have spotted a whole-ass person running full speed at me.
Maybe it was a deer. Deer have been known to run into things.
Not sure how often they run into people climbing out of windows, though.
I don’t see any evidence of what hit me.
Actually, I don’t see anything. With an, “Ughhh,” I wrinkle my nose at my surroundings, expecting to find light streaming through the windows.
But there is no light. Hell, it’s so dark in here that I can’t even locate the windows.
It feels like I was out for hours, long enough to have a REM-level dream, but it must still be the early hours of the morning. This house is even darker than before.
I force myself to my feet, determined to find an exit because I really need to get out of here. However, I have no idea which way to go. It’s like I’m in a void—I can’t see a thing. My hands pat against my pockets, searching for my phone or flashlight, but I can’t find them.
I must still be a little disoriented, because I can’t really feel anything.
I can feel the jeans I’m wearing and the fingerless gloves that cover my hands, but at the same time, I can’t.
It’s similar to how clothes or objects feel in a dream; I’m not actually touching them, but I know their texture, so my brain fills in the gaps.
Ha, but I’m not dreaming. I’m fully conscious—aren’t I?
I spin in a slow circle. Even if the sun is not yet up, light should be coming in through the windows—from street lamps or other houses, or even the moon—but there’s nothing. I look up. Nothing. I look down. My feet.
Well, hey, now that I look at myself, I can see all of me below my chin, almost like I’m under a spotlight.
Huh. I wiggle my fingers in front of my face to be sure.
Yep, those are mine. I grab a chunk of my hair and bring it in front of my face to confirm, and there it is.
Exactly as blonde and curly and visible as it should be.
It’s like I’ve been cut out and pasted onto a solid black background.
I blow a raspberry. So, there is no chance I’m conscious, because if I were conscious, that would mean the house doesn’t look like a void, but rather, I’m in a void.
I drop back down to a seat. At least the ground seems solid, if not also a big, black nothingness.
This has got to be one of those dreams where I think I’ve woken up, but I haven’t. I have those all the time.
It’s fine. Totally fine. I always stop blinking when I’m one hundred percent a-okay.
Don’t they say that you never have ten fingers (or your correct number of fingers) in dreams? Or did Teen Wolf make that up? Using all my fingers, I count—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Dammit.
The blue polish on my nails is even chipped in the same place it was when I was awake. I curl my fingers into my palms, pressing my nails tight enough that it should hurt. It doesn’t.
I pinch myself on the arm. Painless.
All right, vivid of all vivid dreams, let me out.
“Let me out.” I say it aloud, but it comes out in the barest of whispers.
That tracks when it comes to my dreams. Whenever I want to scream, I can never release anything but a whisper, so this has to be a dream. Totally, totally a dream.
I would like to exit this dream, please!
My eyes squeeze shut as I attempt to force myself out. Wake up, wake up, wake up.
I peek out with one eye. Nope. Still in the void.
My shoulders slump. Great. Whatever slammed into me must have hit me hard enough to knock me out.
That must be why I can’t wake up. I don’t think I’ve ever been forcibly unconscious before.
Unconscious dreams must be different than regular sleeping dreams, right? Right?
Oh god. Oh god. I’d claim to be freaking out, except my body isn’t doing the normal freak-out things like heavy breathing and increased heart rate. I press my hand to my heart as if to emphasize this, only to not even feel it beat. My hand flies away from my chest. Nope. Don’t like that.
It’s all in my mind. My mind. I am stuck in my mind. Oh no. I don’t want to be stuck here. I spend most of my waking hours trying to escape from here.
I have to be asleep. I have to be.
Why can’t I wake up!?
“Let me out,” I say again, this time in a slightly louder whisper. Progress. I’m trying to scream, though. Please, please can I scream, dream lords?
“Let me out,” I get out at a normal volume. Let’s go, me! You can do this.
“Let me out!” Ooo, that was a yell! Okay. Oh, I am good.
“LET ME OUT!”
Yes! Again.
I bang my fists on the ground to emphasize my further screams of, “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!” I take a deep breath even though I don’t need it. “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME O—”
“Holy shit. What do you want?”
I falter, halting before my fist makes contact with the floor.
That was not my voice.
It was deep, tone silky smooth and tempting in a way that only exists in fantasies and romance novels. I mentally pat myself on the back for my creativity in conjuring such a voice.
“Hello?” I say cautiously, scanning the area to locate the source of the voice.
The voice repeats slowly, “What. Do. You. Want?”
“Uh, to leave?”
“No.”
I scoff at the blunt answer. My mind is a jerk. “No? What do you mean ‘no?’”
“I mean ‘no.’ You can’t leave here.”
“Where is ‘here?’” I implore.
A heavy sigh. “Where do you think you are?”
I’m still searching for the voice. Nothing. No one. I’m alone.
Fine. I’ll play along. Perhaps I’ll find the end of this dream that way—see the story through. “Um, a prison of my own mind? Or maybe a billionaire’s sex dungeon?”
The voice makes an impressed sound. “Oh, wow, people don’t normally guess correctly. Well, people aren’t normally aware enough to converse, but I’ve had a few.”
My mouth drops. Oh my god. What if I’m not asleep? What if whatever slammed into me was a person, and now I’ve been kidnapped, taken somewhere dark and lined with leather, whips, and a large variety of butt plugs?
“I’m right about the sex dungeon?” I squeak.
“What?” He chuckles. “No, you’re right about being in a prison of your own mind. Though the sex dungeon sounds fun. Do you know any billionaires with sex dungeons? I’m sure it wouldn’t be that difficult to find. We could do that, if you want.”
This cannot be happening.
Play along, I remind myself. It’s just a weird dream. One I likely won’t remember when I awake.
My eyes scan the darkness again. Still utter emptiness. “Uh, no. That’s okay. A sex dungeon isn’t really my idea of fun. Not that I judge it, if all parties are consensual. Just not my thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
The voice sighs again. “Well, alright. No sex dungeon. Now, could you shut up? I can’t concentrate with you yelling in here.”
“Wait!” I yell before asking hopefully, “Can I please leave?”
“Nope. Now, please shut up.”
I cover my face with one hand and whimper, “What is happening?”
This disembodied voice in my head is so rude. I mean, who is he? The sleep police? I’ve never had this much trouble exiting a dream before.
My head finds its place in between my knees as my arms hang loosely by my sides. Whatever is happening right now positively sucks. Is this what being in a coma is like? Dead to the world, but full of fire on the inside? I’m not a fan. Though, I’m sure most people in comas aren’t.
I need to wake up. I need to find a door, a gateway, a window, something, because apparently, politely asking to leave is getting me nowhere.
My face scrunches like I’m going to cry. I want to cry, but nothing is happening. I relax my muscles. Perhaps crying is beyond my dream capabilities. I scan my surroundings. Yep, still in a big, dark void.
I need to make a decision. I can either sit here—or preferably curl into a ball here—and be content in this dream prison, or I can fight to escape.
I’m going to have to go for option number two.
There’s no realistic scenario where I can imagine myself not.
The number of black eyes I came home with as a kid was always a cause for concern with my mother.
She’d ask over and over what happened every day that I returned home with a new bruise, scratch, or note from my teacher, and my answer would always be the same: “They started it.”
I was bullied, sure. Of course, I was, eternally the weird kid here, but I also had a habit of sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.
Other kids would start fights, and I had a tendency to finish them.
In an effort to control and contain my anger and aggression, my mother placed me in karate classes.
The only thing that did was give me better skills to knock down any bully I could.
I didn’t last long in karate. Also, once the boys learned I could fight, they had no problem hitting me.
As I’ve matured into adulthood, I’ve come to understand that fighting doesn’t always have to be physical.
So, I’ll fight.