Sleep is not an escape. It's just another room in this endless labyrinth.
I dream. Not of my past life, not of the knife or the moonlight. I dream of this place.
I'm standing in a vast, empty space. The floor is a polished, black marble, so perfect it reflects the starless void above like a dark mirror. There are no walls. No ceiling. Just an endless, silent expanse of black and more black.
I'm not alone.
Across the room, standing on the other side of this impossible reflection, is another me.
She's dressed in the same clothes I died in. The white sweater, the long green skirt. But her hair is made up nicely, flowing down her back like a river of fire instead of a tangled mess. Her face is clean, free from dirt and blood.
She's not me. Not anymore. She's the ghost I saw in the mirror. The victim. The person who thought the world was a fair place.
I find myself crossing the distance between us before I realize that I'm even doing it.
When I reach up to touch the figure my hand touches a cool stone-like texture.
A reflection, again...? What does it mean? Why am I dreaming of this? I don't know.
She's staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. Her hand, a mirror of my own, is pressed against mine, as if trying to escape the prison of the stone that she's made of.
"I don't want to be here. I'm scared." She says, and her voice is my voice, but higher, softer. "I don't want to do this anymore."
The words are like a knife twisting in my gut. I don't want to feel sorry for her. I don't want to feel anything for her. She's a weakness. A liability.
She's not even real.
"I didn't choose this." She continues, tears welling in her green eyes. "Why did he...why did he do this to us? I loved him. I trusted him."
Her pain is so raw, so real. It's my pain.
It's a strange feeling.
She is me and I am her.
I can feel the pain and the grief and the confusion and the fear.
And yet...
I can't be her.
"I want to see him again. I want to know why. I want to be free." She pleads, her hand sliding down the invisible wall between us.
"I just want to go home." She whispers.
Anger.
What I should feel is anger, rage, hatred.
Something like that.
But...
It's mostly sadness. There is anger there, too, but it's...pale in comparison. A twinge compared to the utter feeling of loss I feel when I look at this woman.
My eyes sting with tears I can't afford to shed.
I don't want to see her.
I don't want to feel this.
I don't want to know who I was.
I raise my other hand, the one not pressed against the mirror. That one also settles on the stone.
"I don't want to die, either." I say, and I don't know why I'm saying it. I can't comfort her. I can't be with her. I can't help her.
But for some reason, I don't want her to just be alone.
I don't want to leave her here. Stuck, and afraid, and hurting.
Her eyes meet mine, and I realize something.
I'm not alone, either.
My eyes fill with tears, and she mirrors me. I can feel them on my cheeks, and I can see them on hers.
She opens her mouth to speak, and then I can't hear anymore. I can't feel the stone beneath my hand, the cool air of this place, or the tears that are dripping off my face.
The dream is dissolving, the black marble cracking beneath my feet, and when I close my eyes, when I open them again, I am someplace else.
The first thing I register is the sound of rain. Not the soft, ambient drizzle from before, but a hard, driving downpour. It's hammering against something metal, a rhythmic, deafening roar.
The second thing is the cold.
It's even more cold now than before. Maybe because I'm far more soaking wet. My clothes are plastered to my skin, my teeth chattering.
I'm not at the fountain anymore.
I'm...
I blink, trying to clear my vision. I'm in a small, enclosed space. The walls are corrugated metal, rusted and streaked with grime. I'm lying on a hard, metal floor. The only light comes from a single, bare bulb swinging wildly overhead, casting frantic, dancing shadows.
It's a shipping container.
I sit up, my body protesting. My head is pounding. I don't remember getting here. The last thing I remember is falling asleep at the fountain.
Green.
He was supposed to be watching.
A wave of anger cuts through the cold and the confusion. Did he do this? Did he move me while I was sleeping? Is this some kind of trap?
The man in question opens his eyes when I move - the startling color of his eyes catching my attention in the gloom.
"It isn't safe to sleep outside when it pours." He says, his voice echoing in the metal box.
He's sitting against the far wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, looking completely unaffected by the cold or the damp. He doesn't look like a captor. He just looks like he's waiting.
I'm in no state to fight him, even if I wanted to, but I find that I don't want to. Not yet. He did carry me here, after all, and it doesn't feel as if he's done me harm.
Even if he has, there's not much I can do but try to find a way out of this container.
"...Why this place?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
"It's dry." Is his simple answer, and he hums lightly. "No phantoms come in here. It's safer than the buildings." He adds.
I frown. I don't know what phantoms he's talking about, but the fact that something is out there that he wanted to avoid is...concerning, to say the least.
...Maybe it was a good thing I trusted Green, instead of trying to shelter in an empty office alone. That thought is....even more concerning.
But at least it makes the danger I feel from Green himself lower enough for me to set my head down once more.
....But not stop shivering.