Wake to Dream(11)

His hands were warm against the skin of her thighs, the flesh of his palms callused and rough. When she'd first met him, she wouldn't have believed him the type for manual labor. But initial impressions can be wrong.

"I know a lot of things about you. Does the source really matter?"

As she pulled further from the effects of the drug she'd been given, her awareness of her nudity came more into focus. Beneath her ribs, her heart sped, the muscles of her body tightening with each lumbering step Max made through the maze like halls of an ornate and beautiful home. Queen Anne, she guessed, if the woodwork and other details she remembered of the style were accurate.

The walls were painted in brilliant jewel tones: emerald green morphing into sapphire blue, the intensity of purple emphasized by the stark white fabric of the furniture sporadically placed throughout.

Her eyes peeked inside the rooms they passed, her mind drifting aimlessly until led back to the conversation they were having. "The source matters," she muttered.

"Even if this is just a dream?" There was a teasing quality to his tone.

A dream. Yes. It was an explanation she could accept. The circumstances shed light on the details. Her capture, the trancelike state that refused to release her...her nudity, especially.

How many times had she found herself naked in some public setting? The dreamscapes breathed life into her anxieties and fears; into the insecurity she felt when reality snuck back to remind her that she was never good enough for the world.

It made sense that a figment of her imagination would share the same memories that made her who she was. He was tapped into her subconscious simply because he was created by it.

After climbing a flight of winding stairs, Max carried her into a spacious bedroom. Her eyes traced the lines of the arched ceilings, the rigid lines of heavy wood beams that seemingly supported the room.

Despite having carried Alice through the large house and up a flight of stairs that would have winded her had she climbed them herself, Max's heart rate wasn't racing against Alice's cheek where it was pressed tightly to his chest. His rate of breathing was even and unstrained. His strong arms didn't tremble in response to the weight of her body. He was unaffected, his physical prowess made more evident by his steady hold.

Placing her in a seat, he knelt down beside her, his hand reaching out to balance her against the high back chair.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his eyes alight with some emotion Alice couldn't name.

"For what?"

"Your new life. The life you've dreamed of having."

Shaking her head, she stared at him, confusion evident in her expression. "Never dreams. Only nightmares."

"Until this moment," he promised.

Alice wanted to believe him, but she knew she'd wake up to find herself alone in the darkness of her room.

Pushing up to his full height, Max strode across the room, crossing the distance in a few long strides. He disappeared into a large walk in closet, leaving Alice alone to gaze about the room.

What at first seemed an innocuous space, one filled with luxury and fine furnishings, came into focus.

The devil was in the details, it seemed.

Her breath caught at the sight of the chains that hung above the bed, the glint of light against metal striking fear into her heart and mind. Forcing her view from the chains, Alice scanned the span of white, plush carpet across the floor, her attention becoming fixed on the odd stain that spread out from the bathroom door. It was obvious that water had crept into this space from the stone tile, the gray muck color stained pink at the edges.

Her focus became acute, her mind spinning with jumbled questions when another stimulus drew her attention.

Sound blasted from another room, the astute voice of a news anchor happily chirping away as she relayed the gruesome events of the world. Had the sound been there the entire time? How had Alice not noticed?

...body...Beaumont...missing woman...

Her eyes widened, as did the ice blue eyes of the man staring down at her from his position at the closet door.

Her lips parted. "My sister," she mused, more to herself than to Max. She recognized the news broadcast, understood that it was a memory come to life within a dream.

With a yellow, flowing garment held tight in his hands, Max smiled.

"Do you understand now?"





12:30 p.m.

Gray walls.

White door.

Dark wood desk.

White and beige striped couch.

Still the same. Still safe.

"How are you today, Alice?"

She hesitated by the couch, her focus caught by a red throw draped over the armrest. Her feet fidgeted over the rug, her hands wringing over themselves as she pondered the atypical item.

"Alice? Please take a seat." A beat of silence before the doctor's voice became tinged with concern. "Alice? What's wrong?"

"It's red," she muttered, her eyes darting about the room to study the other details. Nothing else had changed, but the throw...it wasn't right.

It wasn't safe.

Panic blossomed in her chest, her breathing tight and arrhythmic. The edges of her vision blurred as the doctor moved around her to pick up and inspect the throw.

"Another patient was ill," he explained. "I grabbed this one from the closet and sent the other out to be laundered." From behind her, he asked, "It's just a blanket, Alice. Is this what has you so distressed?"