Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(28)
His eyes focused on mine, focused in the way they had before: piercing, mesmerizing, willing me to seek his approval, to do whatever it took to please him, to do his bidding.
And though that no longer worked, when I tried to flee, well, that’s when I realized the nightmare hadn’t really ended.
My feet were nailed to the stage, and my lips were stapled shut.
18
“How does it feel to know no one will come for you?”
Satchel smiled. Having joined me onstage, he proceeded to circle me slowly, to better observe me.
“How does it feel to know you’re trapped here? Does it make you feel, oh, I don’t know, fearful, perhaps?” With my mouth still stapled shut, it’s not like I could answer. But Satchel wasn’t in it for the answer. He was in it for the taunt.
“You know, I’ve been doing this for a very long time, and I must say that you are one of my most challenging dreamweaves to date.” He stood before me, eyes widening as though I’d finally managed to impress him. Too bad I no longer cared about that.
“Just so you know, I didn’t always deal in nightmares. I used to let people send whatever kind of message they wanted, whether I approved of it or not. I did my job, did what the client and Balthazar wanted.
But then one day, I’d had enough of all the softly whispered, sappy encouragements of
‘Live your life to the fullest!’
“And worse: ‘Seize each day as though it’s your last!’”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“What complete and utter nonsense—not to mention damaging too! But Balthazar loved it, and, of course, the Council gave it their golden seal of approval. Only I could see what was really happening. Only I could see the consequence of such a thing. Those supposedly heartwarming dreamweaves were doing more harm than good. They were en-dangering people, making them believe in a false sense of security. Resulting in a popula-tion of delusional people, running around, taking unnecessary risks. And I think we all know that nothing good comes of that! ” There was that voice again. The one I’d heard earlier—the one that sounded like he was reciting someone else’s words.
And though I was making progress with loosening the staples on my mouth, I didn’t let on. I figured I’d stay where I was and let him lead me straight into the good stuff.
“You can send comfort but not proph-ecy—that’s the Dreamland motto in case you didn’t know. It’s the only real rule we were told to work under. And while it seems to make sense on the surface, while people need to make their own decisions so they can learn and grow, and all that—they also need to make those decisions with a very clear picture of just how dangerous the world is!
And since no one else was willing to do that—it was up to me to show them.” He stormed the stage, finger jabbing the air every time he said something of particular significance. And the longer he lectured, the more his voice changed, until it was no longer his own. It became someone else’s.
He continued to speak, and point, and make all manner of fear-driven statements.
His eyes growing so bleary, his expression so foggy, I was pretty sure he was no longer in the present with me, but hung up somewhere in his past.
Not wanting to disturb him or lead him out of his trance, I let the words seep slowly, softly, trailing their way from my head to his, as I thought: So tell me, tell me just exactly what happened to you that made you this way.
I stood rigid, letting the thought find its way to his brain.
And because he was who he was—or at least who he claimed to be: the best assistant director Dreamland had ever seen—he decided not to tell me.
He showed me instead.
19
The projector whirred as he punched fiercely onto his keyboard. And the next thing I knew, we were dropped into a carnival scene—a sort of old-timey fair.
The kind with clowns, cotton candy, and silly games with cheap prizes that cost only a penny to play.
I gazed down at my clothes, surprised to see myself wearing a flannel skirt with a poodle stitched on it, its hem drooping nearly to the black-and-white saddle shoes on my feet, while on top I wore a snug sweater set with a matching scarf to go with it.
Making me look like a character on some 1950s sitcom.
Satchel wore his same white shirt, black pants, shiny belt, and black shoes, and with his spit-slicked hair, and pasty white skin, well, even back then he didn’t fit in.
Compared to the other boys with their rolled jeans, tight white tees, and sun-warmed skin, he looked more than a little weird. He stood out, in a strange-pale-funeral-director kind of way.
I stood to the side, balancing a cloud of cotton candy in one hand, as I watched him stride alongside his parents. And I have to say that the second I saw them, well it all became clear.
And when his dad began to speak, I knew exactly where that voice had come from.
I kept to their pace, walking just behind them, careful to blend in, go completely un-noticed, striving to overhear brief snippets of their conversation.
His mother kept quiet, a vague and distant expression
stamped
on
her
unhappy
face—while his father, his voice hardened, authoritative, explained all of the very good reasons why Satchel was not allowed to go on any of the rides.
I shoved a wad of cotton candy into my mouth, frowning while I let the little crystal-lized bits melt on my tongue. Wondering why he’d even bother to take his kid to the carnival if he wasn’t allowed to have any fun.