The Heroes We Weren't

Chapter 22 - The First Apostrophe

A piece of glass from a broken bottle cracked under the sole of my shoe as I hurried down the loud streets of the dream world. Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it loud, for each sleeping soul was mumbling rather than speaking - yet their joint worries became much louder and much more distorted, as they arrived from each corner of this world.

Yet even in the midst of the deafening cacophony, I could still make them out - Each and every one. Each worry and each mumble. They came to me like messages waiting to be read yet I had no time to gift them with my attention.

One voice had stood out from the rest. Her fragile words were so familiar, her pleas so violently affirmative that she, and she only, was deserving of my full attention.

"Rick," her voice was louder than the other mumbles, "Rick you need help."

I ran my fingers over a brick wall as I hurried up to the entry of an alley. A teenager walked past me and his troubled whispers of bad grades slipped me by, as I had made a turn for the back street.

It ended with a dead end. It ended with the source of the pleas on her knees; it ended with Miranda pressing her hands against the ground and her back against a wall. A man watched her as she begged, his back was turned against me, his hoodie covering any sign of his identity and his torn jeans showing the back of his leg.

He reached down to grab on to her hair, just to smash her head back against the bricks.

"Stop it!" I had found myself yelling before I had even realized the intensity of my own voice in compare to the others. "Stop it, Rick!" I called once more.

None of them took notice of me; none of them heard my voice. He wobbled to the side from my grab onto his arm, but didn't let her go. Continuously, he smashed her head against the wall, and I viewed.

I helplessly viewed as her hands slipped away from his wrist, I viewed as her soulless arms fell to her side, as the blood dripped down her forehead and as she, Miranda, struggled for her last sleeping breath. I viewed.

Gasping for air, I sat back up in the guest bed of Adam's home. Pressing my hand against my throat, I let my gaze wander over the room, reminding myself of where I had spent the night. The early sun had found its way through the curtains already, the alarm clock on the bed side table showed of eight am.

And there I was, awake. No mission, yet I was awake.

I slipped my legs out from under the blanket and into my jeans - I placed my phone in my pocket and listened to the clink of the broken watch, as I pulled my coat on.

I blinked, viewed the bookcase on the other side of the room. I blinked, adjusted the blanket on the bed. Adjusted the sheets to leave no trace of the tossing and turning from such a worrisome night.

I gazed down at an open book that laid on the bedside table next to the alarm clock. A quote read something about a gentleman and his lies. Blinked again, pulled the door open, hallway, another door, another one, outside, I had to get outside.

I had to see it for myself.

What I dreaded, what I feared, I had to confirm it.

The cries of a baby met my ears as I had stepped onto the street. The same lady from the dream hurried past me - she patted the back of her child and threw another gaze to her wrist watch.

"It's okay, it's okay," she assured the little one, "I packed all of your things, sweetie, it's okay." She suddenly stopped, turned back and let out a quick cuss, "Damnit! The diapers, we forgot the damn diapers!"