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Chapter 3- Bellamy

I was always that one kid who cried on the first day of school. It's hard to believe, seeing how I live now, but its true. I was always terrified that if I said goodbye, maybe there would never be another hello. Maybe this goodbye would be forever. I know, right, it's a pretty dark thing for a kid to think, but then, I've always been a bit morbid. To be fair, I have a good reason to be.

Every night when I close my eyes, I see people die. I can't remember a time when this wasn't true. Sometimes, I'm the one pulling the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Sometimes my victims are armed, and then it's easy. Sometimes, it's not. Sometimes they beg for mercy. When they beg for mercy, its harder to pull the trigger, but I always do. In my dream, I tell myself its for the greater good, and I say I'm sorry, and I pull the trigger. Bang.

Even worse then being the one to kill is when it's other people. I see men in uniform, the good guys, running into action, firing shot after shot. Firing at me. I'm attacking, with friends by my side. I've never met them, but in my dream, I trust them with my life. Their histories, our histories, flit at the edge of my vision when I'm awake. Catching them is like trying to focus on my own eyelashes. But when I'm asleep, these people are transparent to me as water. We've laughed together. Cried together. I know them. And now I have to watch them die.

Every time I think it's going to be me to die, and every time, it's the one standing next to me. Every time I pray that it will be me, and every time, I'm left behind. These people are strangers to me, but whoever I become when I dream mourns them as though each is a drop of blood from her own veins. They are strangers to me, but every time one falls, I can feel my heart break. But the person I am when I dream, she has no time for tears. She fights on, for them. Sorrow is useless to her. Anger, anger she can use.

I jolted awake; my sleeping bag soaked with sweat. I could tell that though I had slept, I hadn't rested. I wondered if I've ever had a proper night's sleep without dreams of murder. Maybe I did, but I was too young to remember.

My dreams last night were especially gory. It was an interrogation. Twomen in uniforms. They drank coffee out of Styrofoam cups and yelled questions at me without even giving me time to answer. I was tiedto a chair, with zip ties, I think. I can still feel them digging into myflesh. One of them had a taser. The other one just had his fists, but that wasenough. I think he was the scarier of the two. They would ask me questions,questions I didn't know the answers to. I tried to tell them I didn't know, butevery time I said, "I don't know" they would hurt me.

They wouldn't stop, so eventually I lied. I guess the answers I gave were wrong, though, because one of them snarled, "Let's teach this bitch a lesson," and the next thing I knew a needle was piercing my skin, and then there was a long, lazy spiral into blackness, and after that, nothing.

I could still feel the blood dripping down my face. I dug my fingers into my greasy hair and wished for the thousandth time that I knew where these dreams came from. Was I remembering a past life? Was I just insane? If I couldn't make the dreams go away, I wished I at knew what was causing them. At least then I would have something to blame. 

The sight of an officer across the street sent a shiver down my spine. My dream was still raw and at the forefront of my thoughts.

When I tried to sit up, the world swayed around me and I flopped back down. When was the last time I ate? The sun was high overhead, and I realized I must have overslept. On the pavement, feet were already marching past me. Heels, sneakers, shiny loafers; pressed slacks and distressed denim, all scurrying past and vanishing.

I tried sitting up again, slowly this time. The world stayed steady on its axis. I held one ragged-nailed hand out in front of me and saw that I was shaking. Shit, I need to eat. I Checked my pockets, then the pockets of my backpack. All told I came up with 47 cents. I looked out at the crowds striding past my little concrete camping ground, just in case anyone was looking charitable. Yeah, right. For the first time ever.

Every swear word I know ran through my head, but not a single solution. Think Bellamy. Think. It's not like I could go back home. Mom and Dad made it pretty clear they didn't want me anywhere near them. Even if they'd take me back, my pride would never let me beg. I'll root through dumpsters if I have to, but I will never do that.

Tears started to prick my eyes at the thought of the last time I saw my parents. The things they said. The things I said. Some things can never be taken back. I could feel despair reaching up like a tentacle to pull me below the waves when a shadow fell over me. I looked up to see a perfectly manicured hand holding out a granola bar and a twenty-dollar bill.

A musical voice said, "H-here. Take it." craning my neck, I met the eyes of a stylish looking blond who quite frankly looked as surprised as I was to find herself talking to me. "I'm Mercy," she said hesitantly, "Who are you?"

Well what do you know. I guess sometimes people have hidden depths.