The Boy and the Beast

14| pulsate

I never considered the reason why dreams always dragged me somewhere between abyss and a Manhattan alley.

It's not as if I'm actually familiar with the place; the walls crawl with black mold reeking of decay. The buildings topple high over my skull, castings shadows darker than the night over my body, enveloping me in nothing but darkness. Debris scattered across the brick road leading up to an old bakery of sorts—one Prue worked at as a teenager.

The only recognizable thing for me is my own body—I don't even know where I got the neat black slacks and crisp button up shirt I'm wearing.

I know it's a dream.

I despise that it's a dream.

I despise that the dream is in an alley. I despise that the dream represents something of a cheap horror film shot somewhere in New Orleans. I despise that I can smell the putrid stench prowling close to the earth.

Rats scramble over carcasses of newspaper unruly, unguided. Windows are barred up with greying wood panels, making it futile for me to see even a silhouette.

I'm not alone.

I push my leg forward wearily, my foot combing through carcasses of newspaper and leaves. The rustle isn't subtle on my ears, burning straight through my eardrums.

An audible rustle booming from the other side of the alley stiffens my entire body.

My gaze darts up to the opposing side of the alley, but I see nothing but darkness and mist.

Why's there mist?

I gulp, nervously folding my arms across my chest. Maybe I should do something as stupid as in horror movies?

"Hello?" I call out. My voice doesn't travel far; it's a brittle call for my own death, probably, bouncing to and fro from the walls like a pinball. "Is someone there?"

I don't receive a verbal answer.

Instead I receive snarls of sadistic fury, growing louder and louder, ringing around in my ears like boomerangs of recurring animalistic voices.

It's creepy.

I back away from whatever is frolicking around below the carcasses. On my heels, I turn around, but instead of another alley-full of decay and debris, Prue is there.

She's poised conceitedly in all her camouflage glory, the Sergeant cap perched with pure pride on her disheveled hazel locks oscillating her delicate facial frame.

"Why haven't you called yet?"

She blinks at me blankly, as if the words just didn't register—as if she can't understand.

"Prue, you said you'd call."

No reply.

I step forward to confront her, my face contorting with anger. Instead of staying unresponsive, she backs up, away from me.

"Why haven't you called yet?"

Her mouth opens and closes like a ventriloquist dummy with a controller who doesn't know what to say. Her eyes are burning with some sort of paranoia or panic; as if I'm the hawk closing in on her.