You are Dolores Cannava, a young Italian-American nurse desperate to make her own way in the world and break free of her dysfunctional mafia-connected family and traumatic past. Elvis Presley is just returning home from his two-year stint in the Arm...
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TW: panic/anxiety, shame, allusions to previous sexual assault, nightmare-related violence/blood, vomit, references to previous sexual activities, lots of hurt/comfort! Mature 18+
Everything is wrong.
You watch helplessly as Elvis stands bravely before an enemy army that stretches so far into the distance that the soldiers meld together into one dark entity. He is alone, with shoulders squared and chest puffed out defiantly, but you can see that his chest is heaving too quickly.
He can't breathe, yet he needs to fight.
You scream his name. The sound is swallowed and dies before it can reach him. That horrible army advances, and heart dropping, you break out into run. Every part of your body screams for him as you try to get to there, but it's as if you are slogging through mud in slow motion.
"I have to help him...have to help him! SOMEBODY HELP HIM!" your mind cries helplessly.
The horde descends.
Elvis disappears as they heap on top of him. The sound of them tearing him to pieces is too much to bear.
You gasp, swallowing air that doesn't seem to reach your lungs. Sorrow aches through you with such force you feel as though you're going to split in two.
No, no, no, no...
Your stomach cramps as though you've been punched there. You double over with pain, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will make it all go away.
Everything is wrong.
When you open your eyes again, you're back in your bedroom, in New York, but it's as it was when you were a child, your dolls and toys and petal pink bedsheets on display. When it used to be home and not a dreary husk with four walls.
Elvis barrels through the door as though running from something, still in his green army uniform. He slams the door behind him, turning the lock.
"Thank god, you're alive!" you gasp, but he doesn't take notice of your words. He's too busy searching the room for something.
"Elvis. Elvis! What are you looking for?"
"We have to go, Little Bird." He's struggling to breathe again, you can tell. The hope you feel from seeing him alive dissipates as your heart starts to pound with dread.
"Go? Go where? Why?" He doesn't stop. "Elvis, you need to rest!"
"But they're coming." His blue eyes lock onto yours with such intensity your reply catches in your throat.
"Who? Who's coming?" is what you try to say, but you can't get it out before the door bursts inward, splinters of wood fracturing around you.
Gianni appears, sauntering in too casually, his eyes black and depthless as obsidian. "Oh, Bella, Bella, Bella," he tsks venomously, his mouth spreading into a hideous grin. All his teeth are razor sharp and pointed, glistening scarlet with blood. "You've been a naughty little fidanzata." He steps closer.
