A Mosswood Production: Tenchi Muyo!: Tower of Roses Chapter Two: Dreams By: J. Bond Author's Notes: Okay I hoped that you liked the first part. If you didn't then too bad! Any-who what we basically have here is an evil villain, two lovers that are slowly falling out of love, a waitress and that ever strange rose in the parking lot. What's up with that little rose? Let me tell you that it's more than just a rose. Have you ever seen something that seems to hold a whole universe in itself? Well I hope you enjoy this next installment. Warning: The following contains adult language and mature situations. Tenchi Muyo! Tower of Roses Chapter Two: Dreams -May 29 Terry Lockhart yawned and let the buzz take over. Things were good. Sooo good. He was fried up on some killer weed that he got from a little bald man. Strange that little bald man seemed to be everywhere all the time. Especially right when you needed him. The apartment he was in was in the least an apartment. It's wide spacious hallways were decorated with modern art that he had pawned off some guy downtown. The apartment was three levels high, barely an apartment. Each floor was equipped with two bedrooms and the first and third floor had their own kitchens. Damn straight. Life was good. This was only his second season on "Trips" a small television show that aired on NBC regularly at nine o'clock. Well it was hardly little anymore. The first season had been a smash. The TV show was basically just a small view of day to day life in a dinner. Terry himself hadn't thought that it was all that funny but apparently the audience did. Nearing the end of the first season he was getting really setup. The show was moved from a late night spot to a prime time slot. Entertainment had already said that "Trips" was going to be one of this decades most influential comedies. And they could never be more wrong. For three days he had been having an all out killer celebration. Throughout his entire life, which was actually not very long, he had never seen so many woman and drugs in his life. The three days were an all out blur from booze, and drugs. He could still smell sex in the apartment, no matter what floor he was on. Even in the bed he was in now he could almost sense the lust that had taken place. To tell the truth he couldn't remember if it had been him in this room or not. He might have during the first or second day but surely not the third. On the morning of May 29, Terry had woken up on the first floor, wrapped in bed sheets and a cigarette burned down to the filter in his left hand. His head was pounding and already he could feel the fingers of a massive hangover squeezing his head. The first words out of his mouth had been, "Awww, fuck." Relatively good words considering that he couldn't feel his legs. In that split second between waking and sleeping when he was still groggy with sleep, he remembered vaguely looking around and wondering, were the hell am I? Then the dawning realization came. He was home as he called it. Which was odd he had moved into this fangled place only a week ago. What was the first thing he had done? Thrown a party. But it wasn't just a party. Their were so many people. Most of the people he didn't even know and a few of them had just walked in off the street and left two days later with a large grin on their face. The beauty of it was that the police had never shown their faces there. Hell a few of the party guests had been Chicago officers themselves just trying to get some and have a nice time. Doubtless that they had families, but in Terry's mind it was every man for himself. That was how he had always been and that's how it was going to stay. The night of the first party had been a strange one indeed he had passed out sometime in the early morning, have from exhaustion and have from a blood alcohol content that was far above the legal limit. That night he would always remember. He had spent the hours he slept (very few) in a nightmare almost. There was a small rose in some kind of parking lot. And something big, dark, tall, he didn't know what though, that part had left him. Then there was the sensation that someone else was there. Someone that Terry particularly didn't want to meet. He was standing in a field of dandelions (roses? tulips?) staring at the man. There was something about him. Then the tension had broke as Terry had woken up. Yet again in that foggy haze between sleep and wakefulness he had seen something. A figure standing by the bed. No that wasn't right it was a creature. Something beyond comprehension and all that he could see was a twisted smile. A dirty perverted smile. Terry had screamed then and that's when the woman next to him woke up, tripping off her ass of acid screaming as well. Not from any dreams she had but from Terry's own voice. That had been almost two days ago now. The house was dead and quite, almost. Every now and then he could hear a few footsteps upstairs, probably just waking up and trying to find their clothes, or more drugs maybe. He spent the third morning scrounging through trash and empty bottles looking for something, something to snort or smoke. After an hour he hit the gold mine, well at least what was left of it. Inside someone's jeans (god knew they weren't his a pair of boxers was also in them as well) was a small roach. Maybe just enough for a bowl. So he had hit it up and waited. Whatever it was it wasn't weed, opium maybe, whatever it was it was good shit. That left him were he was now, laying in a bed, stoned and staring at the ceiling. "Rollin' baby, just moving along." Terry said aloud. The sound of his voice was a little disturbing but at the moment he really didn't care. His ears were still ringing and his head felt like a squashed tomato. Footsteps were coming down the hallway, they passed by and then stopped and turned around. For a moment Terry's heart jumped in his throat and sweat broke out over his body. It's him, the grinning guy. The thought made his stomach turn and for a brief moment he was positive that the door would open and a grinning man would walk through with a rusty piece of barbed wire wrapped around his hands, like a choking chain. The doorknob twisted and Terry almost let brown mud into the bed. The door opened and Richard Feldman walked through with a hazy expression on his face. Terry let out a sigh and then looked up at his co-star and friend. They had moved her together to make it big. And make it big they had. In the words of Terry Lockhart himself, they was rolling, movin' along. "Rise and shine daisy. You got a helluva day ahead of you." Terry's head was spinning as he sat up. He was dimly aware that he was naked in the bed. Without words he pulled a sheet off the bed and wrapped it around him. "What do you mean?" "Baldy's out front in the living room. He wants to know when your planning on paying for this shit." Richard, a tall man, moved his hand around the room motioning empty liquor bottles and dusty mirrors with razor blades by them. "What?" Terry was still trying to grasp what he was saying. Everything was still going. Rollin' good, movin' along. "What did you think this stuff was free?" Richard was smiling but then he realized that yes, Terry had thought that in one way or another. The tall man's face suddenly darkened and he slammed the door to the room shut and twisted the lock. He moved quickly and set Terry down on the bed. His eyes had a slight hint of worry in them. "Man you better be fucking with me. Please say you are." "About what?" Terry shook his head. Bad move. Thunder exploded in his temples as Richard spoke again. "The money. The money for all this stuff. The booze, the woman, the weed, the coc." Richard had begun to tremble and for one eerie minute Terry wished that the grinning man had come through the door. "I don't know..." The words kind of leaked out of his mouth. "I don't know." "Oh God. This is serious Terry!" Richard suddenly slapped him full in the face. Terry fell back onto the bed and more pain raced and burned at his nerves. "Where is the money for this stuff? Try and clear your head where is it?" Terry fumbled over the concept and then the part of his mind that wasn't stoned suddenly clicked together. He had spent the last of his money on this apartment. So what had he done? He had thrown a three day bash with hookers, booze and any kind of drug imaginable. And then everything hit him at full force. The cops hadn't showed up because someone had paid them to stay away. Someone that expected to have his payment back in full or in blood. Terry's eyes spun for a second and the room went out of focus. This isn't happen. Everything's fine, were rollin', movin' along. That's when he vomited onto the floor of the second story room. Chunks of something got caught behind his teeth and he quickly opened his mouth all the way. He stared down at the carpeted floor that had once been a tannish color, but in the last few seconds had merged into a greenish yellow hue. He was fucked. No money, nothing. Not for awhile at least. Richard suddenly began to laugh. Not a normal laugh but one of hysterics. "Oh this is great. This is just fucking great. We're fucked now Terry. Really fucked." Richard pounded his hands against the wall. "How could you let this happen." "I...I don't know." Terry muttered. His stomach was floating on a glob of molten lead. Somehow he had lost control and everything was tumbling out of his hands. Like gambling, he had spun the wheel and came up with double zero: house wins. Richard leaned his head against the wall. "Okay you have to get out of here. He's going to come to you first for the money. I'll say that you left last night with some whore and you'll be back soon." Terry nodded dumbly. Almost within the space of five minutes Terry was dressed and being shoved out the second story window onto the first floors patio overhead. Terry stumbled through his stupor, shoe's untied and pants not even buttoned. He looked down from the overhang and almost puked again. Not thinking he jumped and landed on his feet. He tumbled over onto wet grass and then scurried across the yard and hopped the fence. Within ten minutes of getting his clothes on Terry Lockhart was burning down the street in his Mercedes at sixty. And that's how Terry Lockhart (star of "Trips", grand master of party throwing, dear friend to Richard Feldman) went from superstar to man on the run. ***** May 30 Tenchi Masaki leaned back and laced his fingers together. His eyes were slowly falling, almost totally closed but then snapped back open. No. He didn't want to sleep. Wouldn't sleep. Two days ago the dreams had started. No that wasn't right. He could handle dreams, these were anything but, they felt like visions. Thousands dying, millions, maybe even billions. It was like watching some terminator movie were the man character has a never ending ammo clip. No this wasn't all of it. This wasn't fun to watch by no means. In the movies you knew it wasn't real, but this was. He could taste the air feel the breeze smell the flowers. Roses actually. Fields of endless roses. But there was something else. Two parts of the dreams that he hated the most. There was a man. No not a man, a devil, maybe even the devil himself. Standing in a field of something, Tenchi thought roses but he wasn't sure. His face twisted into an evil grin. Eyes cold dark and yielding their own light. This wasn't what he hated most, it's what happened next. The man, the grinning man would lift a hand to show him a bloody, rusty, scalpel. It's blade bent and twisted. Blood trickling down the side, and then he would walk towards Tenchi, his pace even and clean. The stride of a man going to do business, a man that was going to get it done one way or another. Then he would vanish, not really disappear or fade but just vanish. Then another man would be sitting down in the field of (roses?) flowers. The man was tall, rugged, his face covered by a cowboy hat. He wore a coarse and beaten leather jacket that was tanned to a burnt brown with sun. Across his hips were a set of ancient revolvers, massive and gleaming. The belts crisscrossed on his hips and random shells littered the small holding holes. In the dream Tenchi would stare and for some reason not feel threatened by him. He would actually feel a kind of radiant warmth. Then the man would look up and speak. "It's coming boy. Be ready, don't try and hide from it cause it'll catch you. And stay away from him." The man pointed and Tenchi would turn. The grinning man would be right behind him breathing down his neck, rusty scalpel in hand. Then the dream would end with Tenchi screaming and falling, falling, falling till he woke. The sun beat down on his half-opened eyes. Time was passing quickly soon it would be night. Very soon indeed. Ryoko was suddenly behind him. How long she had been there he didn't know. They preformed the same ritual of communication as always, just making idle chat. "You look tired." Ryoko said. Her eyes were also half opened. "Yeah, I've been having some...interesting dreams to say the least." Tenchi rubbed his chin and watched the sun. "Me too. Bad dreams actually." Ryoko yawned and tried to keep her eyes open. The sun beat continued to beat down. "Really?" Tenchi smiled slightly. "They're getting pretty bad, and it's almost always the same. This guy, I don't remember what he looks like but I remember his grin. The grin and then another guy, a cowboy I guess." Tenchi went silent and stared over the horizon. Pretty soon it would be getting nice out, warmth and good weather. They sat silent but it was uncomfortable silence. Tenchi had expected his wife to at least tell him what her dreams had been. He turned to look at her and then gasped. Ryoko had gone white and her eyes were wide, skin pulled tight. Her throat was making a dry audible click, something like a crab snapping it's claws together. Her hands were shaking. "What's wrong?!?" "I had those dreams to. Only in my dream the cowboy spoke." Ryoko tossed the words out and almost choked on them as her tongue lost control. "He told me to watch out for him...that man...the Darkman." Tenchi stared at her not knowing what to feel. His hands had curled into fists and his testicles had shrunk to the size of pellets. The Darkman. That name was so fitting. It summed up everything about him. He was the devil. He was the Darkman. Then it struck him. Like a bullet train. They were dreaming the same dreams. The Darkman and the cowboy. "Oh dear god." The saliva slipped out of his throat and disappeared somewhere. They stared at each other and then both of them turned towards the horizon. Somewhere they could almost him. Walking, his eyes glowing grinning that twisted grin. They stared for what seemed like hours. Hundreds of miles away in the USA Terry Lockhart dived from the overhang and screamed down the street at sixty. Itsuko Nagami sat in her room compulsively feeling her breasts for lumps. The Darkman moved silently down a worn and beaten path that same grin on his face. ***** June 1 USA "Turn that shit up man this is classic!" David D. Murphy pushed the accelerator on the Hummer and watched the speedometer spin up to sixty. They were an twenty minutes ahead of the caravan of army cars and tankers that were hauling loads from one dessert base to the next. Himself and his partner John Reckmore were taking point, making sure that the road was clear and everything went smoothly. "What are you talking about? This is crap!" John Reckmore was a tall man maybe 6'1 and 200 pounds. He had light brown hair and pearl blue eyes that offset him. Those eyes had taken more woman to bed than David would probably ever see. "Jesus Christ you are dense, this is CCR, the stuff life is made of." David popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with practiced ease. His short blonde hair was spiky and his blue eyes were set behind a reflective pair of sunglasses. This was his fourth year in the army and already he was beginning to wish he was out. Just two weeks left, he was getting short, and ency. That was suppose to be the last of the "dangerous" jobs as they put it. But hey he was making hazard pay just making way for tankers filled with something. What it was though he didn't know. He never knew. Every time he asked it took two weeks to get an answer and the answer was always: Don't ask. For the time being he was content though, but all that would change within the hour. ***** June 1 USA "Approximate time till arrival looks like forty minutes. We're going to begin our initial descent. Skies are partly cloudy with a forty-two percent chance of rain, better bring your galoshes folks. On behalf of the crew I'd like to thank you for traveling Redford airlines. Where we make your trip a vacation in itself." The intercom shut off. Fallon tucked her head into her hood and coughed. Hard. Her chest felt like a ton of bricks and her throat was on fire. Figures, this is how it feels to go cold turkey hon. It was your decision to start know it's your turn to stop. Her hair shot out of the hood at odd angles. It was short and spiky, dyed a deep shade of burgundy but already the brown roots could be seen. Looking like a cheap whore honey. Her body trembled again and the shivers ran up her spine. The belt was a little bit too tight across her hips but at least it was killing her. "So where you headed to sweet thing?" The man next to her asked. He was fat to put it bluntly. His belly piled over the seatbelt and sat there like a clump of clay. Fallon Enman turned her emerald green, bloodshot, eyes towards the man. She looked like hell actually. Her face was pulled tight. The path of tears could be seen on her face. "New York." She said flatly. Her voice cracked slightly and the shivers ran through her body again. Damn, she needed just one pop. Go into the bathroom tie her arm and shoot that bad shit into her arm. No! Can't think like that. It's only been two weeks. The vomiting's passed, that was the worst of it. At the thought her stomach turned. Fallon grunted slightly staring at the puke-bag tucked in the pocket of the chair in front of her. "Manhattan to be specific." The man was visibly shaken by her appearance. She was tiny maybe only 5'5" and 110 pounds. Her frail body looked like it would break if you touched her too hard. "You alright honey?" "Yeah," Fallon coughed again for his sake. Put on the act a little more, "Just got a bad cold." Her fingers were trembling as she fingered the small ashtray on the armrest. God you look like a fool. He's never going to believe that. Wasn't like he wanted to know the truth either though. The truth that he was sitting next to a desperate heroin junkie that was sitting on the cold turkey wagon. And getting dangerously close to tipping off, she thought. A smile crossed her lips letting a small chuckle escape. The man's eyebrow suddenly corked up and he tilted his head. "What's so funny?" She held back the hysterical laughter as his belly giggled with every movement. In her mind she could her it talking in one of those hilarious cartoon voices, telling her to get it some food. That's it hun, your losing your mind. Just get off the plane and find the nearest outlet to shot it up. You don't need to put yourself through this. Her eyes darted down to the bag beneath the seat. The black duffle bag that was packed with bottles of gin and vodka. So your an alcoholic too? Deal with one addiction at a time. The thought made her laugh again. A wave of hysterical mad laughter. People in the plane turned to look at her. Some raising eyebrow's and others just shaking her head. The man next to her leaned away and pretended to look out a nearby window. You are a junkie babes. You know it just admit it. That's why you have to leave Reno ain't it? That's the truth that your afraid to look at isn't it? That's just the way of disasters. She blamed Jimmy for it. Blamed him for the whole damn mess. He got into first two years ago and that brought her down. Alcohol was what she was good at. Drinking, not beer or wine, that would make her chuck till the sun came up and ever after, but hard liquor. Your Jack, your Jim, and little old Bombay Sapphire. That's what she acceded at. Her only talent you could say. Until two months ago Fallon and Jimmy had lived in a small one room apartment in a slum section of Reno, but wasn't it all? They were rolling good for two years. She left home at seventeen because of "moral differences" her mother had said after she gave her the boot. Then she hadn't been drinking though. Well actually yes, but it was controllable. She could handle her liquor then. A drink every now and then, more of a social thing. Then the shit hit the fan. In the summer of 1996 her father died. Her mother's drinking stepped up to the next level. Twice a day to be exact. Not that to her it had been a big problem. Booze was floating everywhere around her house and eventually it got the better of her. She had a drink frequently, about twice a day. But it really wasn't a drink, it was getting totally plowed. She would wake up in a puddle of puke that caked and encrusted her hair. Then Jimmy had come along in the midst of all the chaos with one solid answer. I love you. That's what he said, or something along those lines. He had swept her off her feet in something of a whirl. She was dazed for months not really knowing what to do or what to expect. The memories were coming back more vividly now then ever before. The day in the small living room that she had to drop the bomb on her mother. Janice Enman sat in the living room sofa with a glass full of scotch and water by her side. It stood on a small coaster placed on the coffee table before her. The room was decorated in an almost rustic style that kind of gave it a rural feeling. A small sofa that seated three sat in the middle of the far wall. There were two doors to the room one going into the kitchen and the other leading away to the entry way and the stairs. The walls were plastered with early childhood pictures of the family in their more "happier" times. Before old Mr. Jack came along and began to take all the pain away. The floor had a mammoth red rug that was zigzagged with black lines on it. A small coffee table was set in the middle of the room and near the door leading towards the kitchen was another small high-backed chair. A large lamp stood next to it. It's shade dingy and gray with dust. Janice Enman paused like she had a thousand times before and then took a sip of her scotch. It burned all the way down. Not a bad burn but a good kind. One that she had become accustomed to over the past year or so. Hell one that she had begun to love. The way it slid down and made that warm feeling in her belly. Today was supposedly a big day according to her daughter. The little bitch had fucked up so many things already what could she have done now? Wasn't it bad enough that she had let her father die. Wasn't it bad enough that she had made her feel guilty. An ungrateful little bitch. And that boy she was with was no better. One of these days he was going to get them both into a whole heap of trouble if it hadn't happened already. Her eyes tracked down her arm to the watch on her wrist. A small dainty gold thing that her grandmother had given her. Something that she cherished as much as her own daughter sometimes. It was a quarter past two already. She was late. As usual. But what could you expect from someone like her. The problem was she had never really learned what authority was. Someday it was going to give her a swift kick in the ass. Janice leaned back and felt a small buzz behind her eyes. A tingling, like a fly tripping along inside her head at mock speed, every now and then brushing the back of that ball of flesh she saw through. "Mama." A single word floated into the air. Janice lifted her head and saw her no account daughter sitting in the chair across from her. A strange look was tied up on her face and Janice could tell almost immediately what it was. She wasn't gifted in the book smarts department but she always had the knack of predicting trouble before it hit. "Your knocked up aren't you?" Janice spat out. Her words were slurred slightly but the point had gotten out clearly enough. The bitch was knocked up plain and simple. Fallon was silent. "Was it by that boy? That one your always with? I told you that he was nothing but trouble. Just a hood-rat looking for a quick fix." Janice downed the rest of her scotch in one smooth gulp. In ran down her throat and coated it with an intense fire. You just gotta get some more of that down and everything will fade away. Thankfully. The problem at hand was the dog in heat before her. "What's the matter you just couldn't keep your legs shut?" Briefly a memory of her childhood flashed in her mind. Janice's father, Norman Enman, had been a rough man to say the least. He would come home and beat all the children before dinner and then take it to town on his wife. But that was old business. What came this time was an image of her Father looking down at Janice's older sister. Three months pregnant, her belly already beginning to swell like a rotten watermelon. If she remember correctly what she had just said were his exact words. "It's not like that. I didn't mean for-" Fallon began, curling a leg up onto the chair. "Didn't mean for what to happen? What he slipped and fell inside you is that it?" Janice's eyes were aching with a dull anger. What right did this little bitch have to come into her house and give her this news. After she had done so much. After she had clothed, bathed, sacrificed her life for this little slut. "Mama please just listen to me-" Fallon started again. The anger was building on both sides. Mother and daughter. "Listen to what? How he put his seed in you?" Janice lifted her head and stared at the little slut across from her. Tears were forming in the slut's eyes and slowly falling down her chin. Good, hope she chokes. After everything I've done this is what I get in return. I don't think so. "You've got two days to get all your things out of here. I don't want a slut living in my house." Fallon burst into tears. That had been almost three years ago. Time passed quick when you spent it in a delirium of drugs and booze. Time seemed to speed and slow at your will. The moments flying by when you wanted them to (and sometimes when you didn't) or standing still as a snowflake on the ground. After she had left the house she had floated with Jimmy for a year. Trying to make ends meet but never quite getting there. She had tried that was for damn sure. Working nights and days both while being pregnant. Then the heroin had come. Jimmy first and then her until they were shooting each other up at nine in the morning before they left for work. After awhile it became habit till one day they had gone a little bit too far. Fallon was already in her third trimester and time was just flying by. She had hooted and hollered time in and time out. Shoot up and drank till she was straight. Then one day they both came home from work. Jimmy had some `killer shit' he called it. Knocked him out like a light the night before. So doing the all American junkie thing they had sat down at the dinner table and drove the spikes home. Only this time it was a little different. As Jimmy had said it was some `killer shit' literally. An hour after she shot up (an hour of after the best high of her life) she passed out. The toxin had worked it's way through her system at almost light speed. When she came to she was in a hospital bed at Saint Mercy County Medical Center. At first she was only morbidly said at what had happened. She had almost overdosed on some of the best shit in her life (the last shit in her life as well). A man had come into the room, he was tall and handsome and Fallon had felt a little guilty at wondering how he was in bed while she lay in the bed. His voice was chipper but it quickly took a down-side as the first bit of news came out. Jimmy was dead. He had died last night at 9:23 p.m., he never even made consciousness once before passing away. The freight train hit her at nearly two hundred miles per hour. Tears welled up in her eyes, her stomach began to pull loop de loops up and down left and right till finally she puked over the side of the bed. Shock registered in her system and that wasn't something she liked (but would become suddenly accustomed too) or wanted. That was the first bullet. The second blast came two hours latter when they felt that she had calmed down enough to a certain extent. A doctor in a white lab coat (minus the three dots of blood on the right sleeve) came up and sat next to her and spoke very softly. Yes the worst could happen followed by yet another wham of death and despair. Her child was also dead. The toxins hadn't just worked on her but also on the baby. He informed her in a quite whisper that the baby would be had died about eleven minutes after she had shot the syringe home into her veins. The babies system tried to cope with it but couldn't handle and then finally tapered off completely. It was at this point that Fallon had moved like a bobcat out of the bed and grabbed the mans pen from his breast pocket. Surprised he had drawn away and ran towards the door. God only knew what a junkie would do under strain. But with the pen she began stabbing herself repeatedly in the arms. Blood came leaking out of the holes as she poked and slashed with all the strength possibly (which was very little but enough). She had managed to slash a major artery before nurses (large bulky men that looked more like bouncers) came in and restrained her. After the two deaths (and a near complete suicide attempt) did the depression set in. They had released her from the hospital on her own accord but to do what? After a little debate she figured it was best to run. Run as far from the past as possible. Two months later she delivered a dead baby and never saw it's face. They had put a drape up separating the lower half of her body from the upper and she had never seen any of it. She never saw the puffed blue face. The swollen lips and sunken in eyes. The deformed head and gnarled hands that looked like they were grabbing for something (I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too) just out of reach. A month after that she sold the last of her heroin and then bought a ticket to New York, more out of spite than anything. She wanted out of this dead city (to out run the dead baby) and the way she felt. A week before the trip the dreams had come. Small at first but then as the week closed they gradually became more vivid. It was almost always the same (when she could remember them that is) with only slight differences. In every dream Jimmy would be standing by himself in there apartment, sometimes laying on the dirty mattress sometimes sitting on the fold out chair by the busted table. He would motion her over and out of joy she would come running up to him. The dream started the same every time. She only saw the back of his head while she was running to him. Her hand would slid around his collar and she would lean down close to whisper in his ear. That's when she would see the fetus on the table. A large needle sticking out of it's bloated purple chest. Blood smeared along it's bent arms. It's underdeveloped eyes would roll up to meet her's and she could remember seeing it every time. It's purple lips moving, "Why Mommy? Why?" Then she would scream as she backed away and saw Jimmy's face. His eyes were sewn shut with string (or stapled sometimes it was hard to remember) and he would be smiling. Not a good smile either. The smile was twisted at the corners and small trails of drool would be leaking out of the corners. He would rise up the tracks on his arms glowing an unearthly reddish color and then he would speak. "Come on baby you cheated us. You just left us here waiting here for you. But it's okay now. We're all going to be together." His eyes would roll madly in their sockets before the left one (sometimes the right one good days) would spill from it's socket and dangle by a cord of bundled nerves and limp flesh. "Come on baby..." Then she would wake. Drenched in cold sweat and shaking. Sometimes to the sound of her own voice screaming in wails that didn't even seem human. And every time she woke up she could almost see Jimmy holding the dead fetus in his arms deep in the shadows of the corner. And every night she would curl up in the corner of the mattress and peer into the shadows, looking (searching) for that twisted angry grin. The grin of a man that didn't want to be alone, he wanted his baby with him. For two hours after the dream she would sit in the corner of the bed, debating whether or not she should dare get out of it and try to make a run for the light switch. On cold nights she could see him, actually feel him in the room. Accompanied by the smell of rotting flesh and midnight sex. If the moonlight came in just right she could catch the glint of the hanging eyeball and see the reflection of the drool on his twisted mouth. Amazing how she had kept the screams in. Sometimes her teeth would sink so far into her lips that blood would pulse down her chin in a small warm channel. It would cascade down her arms and stain the sheets she covered herself with. And every night like the one before she would decide not to make a run for it and duck under the covers. For one more hour after that she would tremble with fear, expecting a hand to suddenly clutch her foot and drag her out from under the sheets. Something cold and damp holding a dead baby in it's arms. Then sleep would finally take over and she would drift off into calm waters for another hour before dawn. That was her life (if it could be considered one) take it or leave it. A sudden jerk brought her out of the comatose she had been in. Fallon looked around the plane and saw that the fat man was shaking her. "You all right ma'am? I've been trying to get your attention for the half-hour or so." Fallon blinked and looked down at her watch. She had drifted down memory lane just a little bit too much. Tough titties as Jimmy would say. The time had just flown by. The shakes were coming back as the fat man jiggled her again. "Miss?" Fallon blinked again trying to clear the thoughts out of her head (without success). "Yes, I'm fine. Just...thinking about the past." The fat man looked at her raising an eyebrow (debating whether or not she was actually safe to be around) and then nodded. "The past is sometimes a morbid thing." Fallon held down a bubble of hysterical (insane) laughter. "Ain't that the truth...ain't that the truth." Behind her the sound of death came. A man sneezed. ***** It had been two days. Yes, two days but she couldn't be sure. She had to learn her lesson and that was all. If she had been a good girl she wouldn't be here. Two days. Two days since her Mommy's Boyfriend had put her in the closet. Two days since she had eaten or had food. Her stomach hurt to think about food. A nice big bowl of cereal, Frosted Flakes, that was her favorite. A massive bowl that you could almost swim in. Wade back and forth between the edges and slide down the spoon into a lake of milk. Two days since she had seen light. Rachel Leafmen took a deep breathe and stared up at the doorknob. She knew that if she touched it her punishment would be worse. She was a bad girl. A VERY bad girl. That's why she was here. If she didn't learn some simple rules then she would end up like one of those sluts on the corner. At least that's what Mommy's boyfriend said. Why hadn't she just gotten a drink of water latter? It wasn't really that important at the time. She only got one because she had been outside running around the playground with her friends. She came in to get a drink and when she pulled the glass from the cupboard it had fallen from her grasp. Her mind replayed the one moment over and over in her skull. She watched herself up on tippy-toes reaching for the glass, her tiny fingers outstretched. Why hadn't she just waited till Mommy came home? But instead the movie went on never changing. She was reaching as far as she could her little ten year old body straining. Then her fingers had touched something smooth and cool. Almost got it. Almost got it just a little more. And that's when everything began to come into slow motion in her memory. The glass spun wildly as if possessed then came tumbling down towards her face. She ducked down and the glass hit and rolled off her back onto the ground. The sudden sound made her jump as the glass shattered and fragments stuck into her legs and feet. Small droplets of blood stained the floor and seemed magnified on the broken glass. Then his voice had come. That booming sound that made her think of the bogey-man. That's what he sounds like. That's his voice. "RACHEL! What the hell are you doing?!?" Jeffery Mortin stood up and turned his drunken face around. His eyes wide and head buzzing with a wild flock of mosquitos. "What the hell did you do you little slut? Didn't I teach you anything? If your going to be a bad girl then your going to end up were all bad girls are. With the bogey man in the closet!" Rachel snapped awake, she must have dozed off during that short relapse were memory had often turned into dreams. She looked around the closet. Yes, this is were the bogy-man lives. This is were he hunts little children. A strong feeling of fear came over her small body and she was paralyzed, sure that if she turned around there would a monster hiding in-between the coats and skirts that hung in the closet. It's red eyes peering out from in-between the soft fabrics, lips drawn back into a grin that leaked blood and saliva over it's razor sharp teeth. She was positive. She dared not to even let out the littlest moan. If the monster hears you he's going to come after you. Just like Mommy's Boyfriend. The monster was waiting. That's what it was doing, it was waiting. Just for her to turn around. Then a new thought crossed her mind. What if it didn't want to wait anymore. She could see a twisted jagged claw snaking out from in-between Mommy's skirts and coats and latching onto her shoulder. The nails digging into her flesh until she screamed. Rachel began to tremble. She could almost feel the icy breathe coming out and brushing against the back of her neck. But no matter what she wouldn't dare open the door and run. That would bring an even worse monster after her. Ten thousand times worse than the one that was in here with her. This monster had no fangs or talons, it looked like a human and it always held a bottle. It was tall with brown hair and stark green eyes. It's name was Jeffery. "Mommy...mommy...please come home." Rachel whispered and tried not to shake. The more you shake the more it can hear you darling. You wouldn't want that mean old monster to come and eat you up. That's what the bogy-man does to bad children. Children that don't listen to their parents. He gobbles them up and eats them. And he'll gobble you up just like a turkey drumstick Rachel if you don't stop shaking. The little girl gritted her teeth against the sudden scream that was rising in her throat. Tears were coming down her face in a long wavy river that showed no signs of stopping. To Be continued...