Once Upon a Nightmare

to dream or not to dream

xii: to dream or not to dream

 

Alexander doesn’t try to defend himself, just lets me hit him, before he grips my upper arms and shakes me once—not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know who’s really in control. “I think that’s enough,” he says.

I rage and fight like a rabid cat, but when escape isn’t possible, I fall exhausted against his chest, clinging to him, sobbing, and repeating over and over, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

Thunder claps over us, and with that ominous precursor, the sky opens and releases a downpour of rain. Alexander stiffens and draws into himself, a sudden look of dread in his eyes, as the rain lands on us. Steam whistles off his skin, hissing like someone dumped a bucket of water on a campfire.

He practically carries me to the closest phone booth. We squeeze in together, Alexander locking me against him with an arm on my lower back. The door closes and the windows instantly fog.

My face is gross, I know, but tears continue to leak out my eyes. I wipe what I can with my wet shirt, my shoulders trembling. With some maneuvering, Alexander gets the receiver off. “Two, please,” he says.

We’re transported back into Chimera—where it’s also raining. Alexander groans as he shoulders open the door. “My bike.”

His bike? His stupid motorcycle?!

I know where we are. We’re close to the street where I first followed Gloom. Without thinking twice, I take off at a run. The streets are mostly empty because of the rain and I stomp through puddles without slowing.

Selfish—

Insufferable—

I don’t glance over my shoulder to see how close he is, or if he’s even following me. I’m so charged with rage-induced adrenaline, I could run at this speed for hours.

I risked my soul so he could live—and how does he thank me? By ruining my mind and trappingme in this place where I can never be fully alive. And I knew, I knew, what he was like, it just didn’t matter because . . . because I loved him.

Fresh tears pour and I scream a little through clenched teeth, pushing myself to run harder.

That’s the ugly, stupid truth I don’t want to admit because it sucks worse than anything has ever sucked before. But it is true. Not even goodlove, either. This naïve, besotted fascination that was neither romantic nor friendly; hopeless in the way girls in my high school loved their favorite rock star. But it was more than I’d felt before, with someone I could touch and who responded to my attention, positively or not. It was nice. And in my stupid expectations, I assumed the way relationships worked was by default two-sided. I gave, and so I must receive. But he let me down.

And I wasted my chance to do it right on him. My father’s love still feels fresh in my heart, and he’s waiting, in the real world with real love, where I belong—if I ever make it home. At the thought of my old house, smelling like paint and creaking like an old woman, I realize I’m angry at myself too. I was there, and I didn’t see it. I only saw my books.

I nearly pass the alleyway where Gloom’s bookshop is, but I recognize it at the last second and slide around the corner. I step inside Crooked Books’n’Nooks, greeted once more by the dangling skull’s hearty laugh. Gloom walks around one of the shelves, removing his glasses as if to greet a customer. “Violet! You’re drenched.”

He ushers me inside. He doesn’t say anything about getting any of his books wet, though some of them are old enough they’ll be ruined if I drip on them. He has his priorities straight, unlike me. “What happened to you?” he asks. “Oh—my dear. Are you crying?”