Breaking Point

III. The Luncheon

He had a vivid dream that night (or day).  He was being led down a corridor.  His hands were chained together in front of him, and he was wearing a steel collar with 2 rods connected at the front and back like the leads used by dog pounds or animal control.

He could see one alien manning a pole in the front, and he imagined another one was behind him.  He tried to turn his head in either direction, but his head was jerked violently back to looking straight ahead.  In his periphery, he could see an alien on each side, pointing their wands at him in case he tried to escape.

After what seemed like an eternity walking and jostling with his shackles, he was lead into a small steel room.  His restraints were removed, but the heavy metal collar remained, which they connected to a chain attached to the floor.  His escorts disappeared, and he was left alone.

In the center of the room was a steel table with one metal chair on the side closest to him.  On the table was a steaming porcelain cup filled with black liquid.  It beckoned him to sit down.  In the middle of the table was a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, and a yellow lighter. 

He sipped the hot black liquid. Not bad.  He reached for the center of the table.  Don’t mind if I do, he thought, as he put a cigarette between his lips. 

The room was like his cell, with the same light fixtures and decorations on the walls.  This room, however, had 2 doors.  The one which he entered was behind him, and another in front of him.  If he were to guess, he was going to be interrogated.  Long after his coffee had disappeared and the cigarette had been extinguished, he waited for his interrogator to enter.

Finally, he heard the door behind him open and the fast, decisive footsteps approaching.  He did not face to meet his captors, assuming they would come to the other side of the table. 

His neck was jerked violently backwards by the chain. Bang!  A stinging thud rattled his brains as the back of his head hit the steel floor.  His chair had flipped over from the force of the pull and had taken him for the ride.  An alien was stood over Francis, still dazed on the floor, its eyes staring into Francis’s. 

The collar had come free, but he could not stand up.  He was motionless, paralyzed by his captor’s icy black eyes staring down at him.

The alien slowly descended upon his immobilized pray.  Francis felt the icicle fingers on his neck like before, and it filled his whole body with dread.  The alien stroked his soft neck slowly, but violently, maliciously, as if at a moment’s notice he would tear into it.

This wasn’t the scientific, calculating touch he had felt earlier.  This was filled with aggression and loathing.  The alien knew the trauma he was causing, and relished in it.

***

“Agghhh!!”  Francis screamed desperately as he thrashed himself awake on the couch.  He felt thick cold sweat cover his entire body.  He sat up on the couch, trying to shake off the effects of the dream.  He knew it was useless, of course. 

Some dreams feel so authentic and traumatic that they linger with you the whole day.  Like a hangover, the only way to be completely rid of it is to sleep it off again.  He only hoped he wouldn’t have that dream again, and he really hoped that they wouldn’t come anytime soon.  What was what’s-her-name doing?

He rubbed his eyes and looked around.  She was sitting on the armchair, looking at him with concern.  She was short and slim, with long straight black hair.  Her outfit matched his.  She had a piece of fabric covering her chest and crotch, exposing her flat belly, narrow shoulders and thin legs.    Her face was smooth and firm.  She looked like she was about 20, though he could never tell with Asian people.  She may have been 15 or 50.  She’s alert at least, he thought.