Jack of My Heart

Nightmares are Made of This

     "He's not a serial killer, he's not! He's not even all that creepy, I just don't think he's that good at y'know... interacting," I argue with Chuck, sitting on one of her barstools.
     "He asked you—no, insisted you stay the night at his place even though you've only just started talking. And not to mention, he's your boss!" Chuck throws her hands up, nearly knocking over her bottle of Shiner. I shudder at her last statement, wanting to forget about that.
     "That's not all that important," I gripe, biting my lip.
     "Jack," Chuck hits me with a level stare, more than slightly judgemental.
     "Listen, you're one to talk. How about when you were dating Julian for a whole year. Not only is he older than you, but he is your boss' boss," I shoot back, crossing my arms.
     "Older than me by three years, not nineteen!" Chuck exclaims, angrily gripping the neck of the beer bottle. After a brief pause she adds, "But you do have a point."
     "You did the math? That's creepy," I tilt my own drink to my lips, then take it away with a shake of my head.
     "What's wrong, man? And don't brush me off, you know I can tell when something's up," Chuck looks at me with severity. I raise an eyebrow and give a slight chuckle.
     "I guess we both have a sixth sense." I do take a drink this time, downing almost a third of the bottle in one swig.
     "I don't know what that means, but something's definitely up. What's going on?" Chuck grows concerned, her eyebrows knit together and eyes wide.
     "I, uh," I clear my throat, unsure of how to word my statement, "I found out that my parents were murdered, and that it's my fault."
Her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth turns into a small frown. I take another long drink and wipe my mouth.
     "Can you," She cuts herself off with nervous chuckling, "can you say that again?"
     "The accident I was in was planned. The killers were after me though, because apparently I... witnessed a murder... that I can't remember witnessing." I purse my lips and look to the wall on my right, admiring the drywall technique.
     "Jesus Christ," She mutters, gripping the edges of her countertop.
     "Also, I can feel how a person died just by looking at them," I add quickly, the words following so soon after each other that they're almost incoherent. Chuck is silent and blinks a few times, staring down at the Formica.
     "Jesus Christ," She repeats, then looks back up at me. "Are you okay?"
     "Yeah, I just don't really want to talk about it right now, but, uh..." My voice trails off as I search for something to say.
     "Wanna watch a movie?" She offers, looking unsure.
     "Yes, thank you," I sigh with relief as I'm thanking her, and trot over to the couch with her, both of us falling back at the same time.
     "You know I'm here for you, right?" She looks over at me while our streaming service gets pulled up.
     "I know. I'm here for you, too, Chuck. No matter what," I meet her friendly stare.
     "I'll drink to that," She lifts her beer and we clink our bottles.

     I stay the night at Chuck's apartment, too tired to walk home. The moment I hit the couch I'm out like a light, not even remembering to take my glasses off.
     A drop of something hits my face and I slowly open my eyes, blinking as another drop lands on my forehead. I dab my head with two fingers, squinting as I observe what the liquid is. My fingers are dripping with a thick crimson fluid, and it takes a minute to register what it is. My eyes go wide as saucers and I push back against the couch, holding my hand in front of my face like it's an attacker that I can't escape. I let out a small shout, but cut myself off with a glance to Chuck's room. Slowly, cautiously, I look up to the source of the blood.
     On the ceiling is a slowly growing puddle of red, pooling around the middle and splashing down on the couch beside me. I slowly get up, feeling as though my body is being tugged by a string. I close the door softly after me and creep up the stairs, into the apartment above Chuck. Instantly, I'm transported to the empty highway, watching as an old, black, '75 Monte Carlo drives around the bend. Wait a minute, is that new? I ask myself, drenched in the pouring rain. A car alarm screams in my ears and I clap my hands over them, wishing it would all just go away. With painful reluctance I turn my head in the direction of the muddy ditch, following the reflections of the flashing orange lights to the crumpled up vehicle, overturned and battered. I see a tiny, shivering body, mostly covered in blood and I immediately rush to his side.
     "Oh my god, are you alright?" I roll him over and see my own face, fifteen years younger. With a gasp I snatch my arms away. The younger version of me groans in pain, face contorted into a grimace, and I notice the huge metal cross rail sticking out of his gut. His eyes flutter open and make contact with mine.
     "My parents, where are my parents?" He asks immediately, attempting to sit up, then crying out in pain.
     "Lay down, kid. I'll go try to find them," I push on younger me's shoulders, gently helping him settle down. Scrambling to my feet, I slide down the ditch to the toppled automobile. The car doors are a monster to open, with one of them being forced shut by a large tree. Kneeling down, I grip my wrist and swing my elbow at the window with as much force as I can muster. My father lies there, a thin stream of blood trailing from his lips to his forehead, dripping onto the roof of the car. My mom is seated beside him, her neck twisted at an odd angle. In between them is a large hole in the windshield, surrounded by jagged edges dripping with life.
     "No, no, no, no. Mom, Dad! No," I cry, tears beginning to cascade down my cheeks. Suddenly, my parents' eyes snap open and turn to look at me.
     "You could have saved us. This is your fault, my love," They say in unison, ending with a soft smile.
     "N-no, Mom, Dad, no, I didn't—Vincent said-" I begin, trying to pull them out.
You're a monster, Vincent's voice booms from above. My parents hands start to wrap around my wrists, trying to pull me into the car.
     "No! No, please-" I yank my arms away from them, struggling to find my footing. When I do stand up and whip my head around I see six figures, side-by-side. All are silhouetted until a bright flash of lightning illuminates their features.
     One girl is made up of floating limbs, all severed from each other, but forming a full person. The woman beside her has a cord wrapped around her throat. Then are two people—a couple—with blood dripping down their interlaced fingers. Another beside them is a man holding a small jar with an even smaller head inside. Finally I can see a man with blood pouring from a hole in his chest and his stomach, with even more flowing from his open mouth.
     I take a step back, but the figures don't move.
     "There will be more. Three, maybe four," They speak rhythmically, white eyes trained on me.
     "My blood is on your hands," The girl with the chord tells me.
     "M-Madison—I mean, Ms. Brown! Who killed you? All of you, who did it? Please!" I call, stepping towards them, but the ground seems to stretch between us.
     "Please, save us, Jack Langdon. You're the only who can," They all say, mouths moving as one.
     "Jack!" I hear a cry from my left and whip my head around to see my younger self on his stomach, dragging himself towards me on his elbows. Time seems to slow down as a brilliant white flash cracks the sky. I know what's going to happen, and I try to rush towards him, to save him from what comes next, but my feet are glued to the ground.
     "No!" I scream as the bolt fingers out across the sky, a jagged dagger of electricity headed straight for the boy.
     "Jack!" He cries again, but it's too late. The lightning meets his skin, striking him, and spreading out in red branches. "Jack! Jack, wake up, come on!"
     His last words stop me in my tracks. What?
     "Jack, please, wake up," The voice melds into Chuck's and I open my eyes, her face slowly coming into view. The scar along my back burns, and I'm drenched in a cool sweat, but other than that, I'm okay.
     "S-sorry. Did I wake you up?" I mumble, unsure of what else to say.
     "No, but I can't say the same for the rest of the building," She says with a glance above her before bringing her eyes back down to mine with a look of pity and frustration.
     "You told me they went away," Chuck fixes me with a solid stare, eyebrows slightly furrowed.
     "Did I? Well, I didn't-" I start with a nervous grin, but Chuck grabs my ear and begins twisting-"Ow, ow, ow! Okay, fine, I lied! I just didn't want you to worry about me."
     Chuck hits my shoulder with a scowl and crosses her arms.
     "You should've told me."
     "And? What would you've done? Made me stop having nightmares? It's pointless, and I know how upset you get, and I wanted to not have to see that look on your face," I gesture to her pouty frown with my forefinger and smirk at the even deeper frown that forms on her face.
     "You could have at least warned me so I could tell my neighbors not to call the police if they heard screaming," She jokes back with a huff.
     "I think they would've one hundred percent called the police after that," I tease, propping myself up.
     "Jack?" Chuck asks after a pause.
     "Hm?"
     "Why were you saying his name?" Chuck looks up from the ground. My face blanches, then turns a bright red.
     "What do you-"
     "At first you were calling for your parents like you normally do, and then you started to yell Vincent's name over and over." Chuck gets up and fills up a glass of water, then hands it to me when she sits back down. Her eyes still ask the question that she doesn't want to repeat.
     "I don't... I don't know. I don't remember my dream very well," I lie, taking a drink. Madison comes into my head, her words echoing along with her image. My blood is on your hands. I shake my head with a grimace, but a few other sounds enter: the victims lamenting for my help, and Vincent calling me a monster. I shiver, set the glass down and stand up, catching myself as I start to sway. "Well, I've got a class soon, so I should probably get ready for that. I'm sorry again, Chuck, and thanks for letting me crash here."
     "Jack-" Chuck starts, but I'm already out the door. Once I get outside, my chest heaves in and out, but I steady my breathing and start toward the elevator. I have to go to the morgue.
     I already finished my assignments for the week, so I only have minor hesitations about skipping classes today. But how am I going to get the pictures? I can't just break into Vincent's office, and I'm sure Captain Singer would tattle if I tried to ask him. But that's a later problem. This is a now problem. I feel a shudder crawl down my spine as I look up from the sidewalk to the front entrance of the morgue. Clutching one strap of my backpack I glance over my shoulder, swallow hard, and exhale sharply, heading inside with a stony resolve. The hallways are again deserted and I hope to make it to the room our victim is in before I'm caught by the bug-eyed man. What room was it again? 167. It was room 167.
     I sneak around corners and peer down hallways, avoiding the few morticians roaming the corridors like their clients. I make it to the room without a hitch and slip through the door with a quick look over my shoulder. Searching through my memory I picture the slot that the victim lies in and twist the metal handle, wincing as I pull the slab out.
     "Oh God," I mutter, face contorting as I look at the victim. A sharp pain like a knife carving something into my back floods my senses. I glance around before pulling on a pair of gloves and lifting up the victims arm in an attempt to roll him over. After a few seconds of struggling against dead weight, I succeed and nearly drop the man as I realize that I was right.