The Girl Who Dreamed of Darkness

THREE: Their Names Are Freaking Nouns

"Can you believe he found her here, on Darkstream Hill?"

...

"It does make one wonder where she's been all this time."

...

"Do you think it will be easy to break her?"

...

"No. You remember how she was, don't you?" A moment of hesitation. Then, "But he said she seemed weaker, so maybe things will be different this time."

...

The hollow feminine voices drift away with the clicking of two pairs of heels, as if down a long, cavernous hall. They might be gone, but I'm not ready to open my eyes yet. This can't be real–this raw cold air and the sound of water dripping on stone floors. An unending ping-ping-ping that's driving me mad. I must be dreaming. I must have fallen in the hallway last night and hit my head. Maybe I'm in a coma.

No, that's ridiculous. I remember falling to my knees and curling into a ball on that grody carpet. If I'm unconscious, it's not from a head injury. Dreaming is the most likely case, but I never remember my dreams. Does that mean I'll forget this, too, after I wake up?

Everything except the darkness?

Maybe I'm lucid dreaming. I've heard of the phenomenon but never experienced it. This seems an awful lot like a lucid dream, though. I'm fully aware of myself and my surroundings, and everything is realistic. It's like I'm actually–I open my eyes and take a cursory look around–locked in a cage. It's more old-fashioned than that, though. It looks like a dungeon. Iron bars span the front of stone walls that surround me on three sides. A pair of sconces with strong orange flames writhing above them hang on more rock walls outside the closed door of my cell, but there are no lights inside my prison. No lights and no proper furniture.

All that's under me are rickety boards just long enough to support me. Not that they offer any comfort. My head and back both ache fiercely, a touch of realism I could do without.

I almost laugh at the absurdity. Of course, my mind would conjure up a gothic medieval fantasy to torture me in. I'm even dressed for the era, in a fancy but tattered evening gown. It's silk, I think. Not especially voluminous or ornate, but it looks expensive. It's also nearly as beat up as I am, with rips and snags, and... water stains?

The whole garment feels soggy, actually. I doubt the dripping ceiling could have caused this much damage. It's like the dress was submerged in water. When I try to move my legs, it's an ordeal. This damn thing is heavy.

My hair feels stiff, too. It snakes down my bare back in long, twisting locks. I pull a section over my shoulder and flip the ends around, wondering at the difference. My hair is shoulder-length and mousy in real life. Here it's a similar color but more vibrant, like sunset hitting a field of wheat. I bet it would be smooth and lustrous if it were clean and combed. Because nice hair is important to my dream-psyche, apparently, but not physical competence.

Ugh. I try to stand, but with the gown weighing a ton and my body screaming in pain, it's not worth the effort. The cell is probably locked, anyway. I doubt I'm going anywhere until someone comes and lets me out. And the likelihood of that happening seems pretty low, based on the conversation I overheard before I became fully conscious. Dream-conscious?

Whoever those women were, they didn't strike me as allies. I'm pretty sure they talked about breaking me. Whatever that means. I'd be terrified if I wasn't expecting to wake up at any second, face-planted in the hallway in my dingy apartment. My father probably stumbled over my passed-out body on his way to his bedroom, if he even made it off the couch last night. Either way, I don't trust him to help me. He'd let me lie there until I soiled myself, then berate me for being an inconvenience.