The Broken Crystal

Chapter Eight

Crystal woke up covered in sweat. Another memory, another nightmare. Her body was still in shock from it, and when her fingers reached over to throw off the covers, she noticed they were shaking. Clenching them, she stood up from the bed, her legs complaining. The hard run the day before seemed to have finally caught up with her.

A quick look outside showed it was dark. Knowing that everyone were probably still asleep, she was careful not to make any noise as she made her way down to the kitchen. Water, she needed water. The wooden floor felt cold on her bare feet and when she reached the marbled tiles of the kitchen, it got even colder.

Suddenly she stopped. In front of her, sitting in one of the stools of the kitchen island, was Dean. Surprised, she walked towards him, her thirst temporarily forgotten. "Dean." She touched his arm. Immediately, the boy flinched away, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Oh! It's just you." Dean seemed to calm down a little, but his eyes were still wild, darting around the room as if he was expecting someone else to show up. That reminded Crystal, why was he even here? When she asked him about it, the wild eyes settled down and filled with shadows.

"Nightmares," he whispered, forcing a small grin. "Kept me awake. So I came down here."

There was no questioning that his nightmares were tied to whatever they had done to him at the institution. Wait, what was it, really?

"Um, Dean?" When he nodded at her, as if to tell her to go on, the thought she might accidentally hurt him struck her. Asking about something so traumatic was risky; you never knew how a person would react. One patient Crystal had talked to hadn't stopped screaming for a day. Another one had begun beating his head like he was trying to ward off a demon. And, in a way, it was one. Still, she couldn't help herself from asking: "What did they do to you?"

Dean looked away and for a moment Crystal thought he wouldn't answer. That he would just ignore it and walk away. But he didn't. "They led me into a room..."

The door wouldn't move. No matter how hard I punched, no matter how forceful my kicks were, it stayed the same. Silver, cold and solid. Like the table I had spotted in the middle of the room. I didn't want to think about what it could be used for. 

I didn't stop slamming myself against the door, even when I heard a voice, or when I saw the man. It was only after he pulled out a gun that I finally relented.

"So, what I was saying was: take off your shirt and lay on the table."

I ignored him. It was a mistake. "Who are you?" I asked. Another mistake. Because even though the man's appearance made him look conceivably  harmless, he was anything but. I knew that once he fired the gun.

It took me a while to realize that I wasn't his target, but when I did, a feeling of relief rushed through me. I was alive and I really hoped to stay that way. So the next time he opened his mouth, I did exactly as he said.

I pulled off my shirt and instantly shivered from the cold air. Then I laid down on the table and understood what being cold actually meant.

"I'm Blake," the man said. Why was he telling me this? Maybe as a reward for cooperating, he had decided to finally answer my question. But it didn't really matter anymore. Those two words were entirely insignificant in comparison to what he said next. "Now, I'm going to cut you. And you're going to keep still and be quiet." There was an underlying threat in his words. I knew that if I moved or made a sound, he would kill me.

Crystal took a hold of Dean's arm, hoping that this would stop him from digging any further. It was too late, though. The memory had already made him its prey and if there was one thing all memories had in common it was that, in the end, they always won.