Sleep No More
Page 50
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What’s wrong with me?
The hesitation—the flexing of his facial muscles. They make me want to cry. “For you? Yes.” Where do these words come from? Are they his and I simply heard them ahead of time last night, or did I make this happen?
“For yourself?”
“Sometimes,” he says. And before his fingers make contact with my face, I’m already familiar with the feeling. “But I would risk a lot of danger to see you.”
I stand in the doorway and watch his guard escort him out to the car. He pauses before he slips into his seat and I know he’s waiting for me to close the front door. He won’t leave until I do.
I made all of those choices last night. I decided which paths to follow. So is it my choice when I step back and close the door, or did I dictate my own future in my dreams last night?
The scenario was different. I wasn’t a third party like I have been all the other times. I was playing myself in the dome. Does that change things?
And the way I got into the scene in the first place—the way it rolled down without me willing it to. Did I do that? Did someone else do that?
And if it was just me, was everything Linden said and did tonight a lie?
I trudge down the hallway, almost forgetting that my mom is still awake. She turns her chair around with a smile. “So?” she asks.
I have to smile for her. I have to make the edges of my mouth go up even though I feel like my world is crumbling to pieces in my hands. “I think I love him,” I say, shocked at myself when the words come out. I wish I could take them back. What the hell will Mom think of that? Even though she’s known about my “crush,” she doesn’t really understand the years of pining, of wanting, of knowing I would never have him. Only to get him after all.
And not know if it’s real.
The Christmas party, I tell myself. That was before I’d figured out anything about my second sight. I couldn’t have possibly made that happen.
Mom simply smiles at my declaration and says, “Are you kidding? I’m half in love with him myself.”
I laugh, but inside I want to cry, especially when she takes my hand and squeezes it. “It’s about time you had someone in your life. And lord knows we could all use a little happiness right now.”
That may be true, but some of us deserve it more than others.
I’m turning to leave when my mom adds, “The doctors are saying that Clara’s condition has moved to stable, but that if she doesn’t wake up soon, she probably won’t.”
I back out of her office, slowly and silently, in case she hears me and decides to say something else. I can’t handle any more tonight.
In my bedroom, I pull on stretchy yoga pants and an old, faded T-shirt and climb under my comforter. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think much about the fact that I had put myself actually into the scene with Linden while on the supernatural plane. Did that make a difference? Did I dictate my own future because I put myself in the scene? Or did I simply live out the one that was going to happen anyway?
But it was so exact! Sure, I was able to wear a different outfit, and Linden did tell us ahead of time that he would be bringing Italian food. And there were other differences. Most notably, Sierra joined us.
But that conversation. Not only was it word for word, I felt like I couldn’t not say the words. It was like a strange compulsion. That was how Smith always described what we do in my visions.
There was an Oracle using her powers on me, somehow.
But was it someone else, or was it just me?
A tiny spark of an idea begins to shine inside my mind. If I can put myself in a dream scenario and make it come true, shouldn’t I be able to put myself in a real vision? One I know is going to happen?
I don’t think I can just create a scenario in my supernatural plane that has me revealing the murderer—even the dome only holds possible futures as of that moment. I don’t think I can invent a future from nothing. But if I get a vision of the next murder and take the victim’s place in it, I can bend the future to my will. Can’t I?
I dig the pendant out from under my bed and loop it around my neck with the stone clutched in my fist. I have to practice putting myself into my dream scenarios tonight. Because if I can put myself into a dream vision, surely I can put myself into a foretelling vision. And that is central to my plan.
A plan that will only work if I can do the two things I think I can—the two things that Smith told me I couldn’t: affect the physical world while in a foretelling, and change the future while dreaming on my supernatural plane.
Which begs the question—did Smith actually not know, or has he been lying the whole time?
TWENTY-FIVE
I awake the next morning from a dreamless sleep.
No, this is wrong, I think groggily as I try to shake the cobwebs from my thoughts. I should have gone to my second sight last night; I was wearing the necklace. I needed to practice!
My hands fly to the pendant—maybe it fell off. But no, it’s still there. Around my neck. Why is it wet? I look down and a scream rips out of my throat.
I’m covered with blood. So much blood it’s not a bright, garish red, but a deep maroon. It puddles in my lap, soaking onto my bed and spreading across the sheets. I struggle for air as my hand brushes something cold and my hands curl around the handle of a knife.
The blade is caked with blood that has already dried in crooked rivulets. Flinging the knife from me I tumble off the bed and onto the floor where my right hand makes a perfect red handprint in the beige carpet.
The hesitation—the flexing of his facial muscles. They make me want to cry. “For you? Yes.” Where do these words come from? Are they his and I simply heard them ahead of time last night, or did I make this happen?
“For yourself?”
“Sometimes,” he says. And before his fingers make contact with my face, I’m already familiar with the feeling. “But I would risk a lot of danger to see you.”
I stand in the doorway and watch his guard escort him out to the car. He pauses before he slips into his seat and I know he’s waiting for me to close the front door. He won’t leave until I do.
I made all of those choices last night. I decided which paths to follow. So is it my choice when I step back and close the door, or did I dictate my own future in my dreams last night?
The scenario was different. I wasn’t a third party like I have been all the other times. I was playing myself in the dome. Does that change things?
And the way I got into the scene in the first place—the way it rolled down without me willing it to. Did I do that? Did someone else do that?
And if it was just me, was everything Linden said and did tonight a lie?
I trudge down the hallway, almost forgetting that my mom is still awake. She turns her chair around with a smile. “So?” she asks.
I have to smile for her. I have to make the edges of my mouth go up even though I feel like my world is crumbling to pieces in my hands. “I think I love him,” I say, shocked at myself when the words come out. I wish I could take them back. What the hell will Mom think of that? Even though she’s known about my “crush,” she doesn’t really understand the years of pining, of wanting, of knowing I would never have him. Only to get him after all.
And not know if it’s real.
The Christmas party, I tell myself. That was before I’d figured out anything about my second sight. I couldn’t have possibly made that happen.
Mom simply smiles at my declaration and says, “Are you kidding? I’m half in love with him myself.”
I laugh, but inside I want to cry, especially when she takes my hand and squeezes it. “It’s about time you had someone in your life. And lord knows we could all use a little happiness right now.”
That may be true, but some of us deserve it more than others.
I’m turning to leave when my mom adds, “The doctors are saying that Clara’s condition has moved to stable, but that if she doesn’t wake up soon, she probably won’t.”
I back out of her office, slowly and silently, in case she hears me and decides to say something else. I can’t handle any more tonight.
In my bedroom, I pull on stretchy yoga pants and an old, faded T-shirt and climb under my comforter. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think much about the fact that I had put myself actually into the scene with Linden while on the supernatural plane. Did that make a difference? Did I dictate my own future because I put myself in the scene? Or did I simply live out the one that was going to happen anyway?
But it was so exact! Sure, I was able to wear a different outfit, and Linden did tell us ahead of time that he would be bringing Italian food. And there were other differences. Most notably, Sierra joined us.
But that conversation. Not only was it word for word, I felt like I couldn’t not say the words. It was like a strange compulsion. That was how Smith always described what we do in my visions.
There was an Oracle using her powers on me, somehow.
But was it someone else, or was it just me?
A tiny spark of an idea begins to shine inside my mind. If I can put myself in a dream scenario and make it come true, shouldn’t I be able to put myself in a real vision? One I know is going to happen?
I don’t think I can just create a scenario in my supernatural plane that has me revealing the murderer—even the dome only holds possible futures as of that moment. I don’t think I can invent a future from nothing. But if I get a vision of the next murder and take the victim’s place in it, I can bend the future to my will. Can’t I?
I dig the pendant out from under my bed and loop it around my neck with the stone clutched in my fist. I have to practice putting myself into my dream scenarios tonight. Because if I can put myself into a dream vision, surely I can put myself into a foretelling vision. And that is central to my plan.
A plan that will only work if I can do the two things I think I can—the two things that Smith told me I couldn’t: affect the physical world while in a foretelling, and change the future while dreaming on my supernatural plane.
Which begs the question—did Smith actually not know, or has he been lying the whole time?
TWENTY-FIVE
I awake the next morning from a dreamless sleep.
No, this is wrong, I think groggily as I try to shake the cobwebs from my thoughts. I should have gone to my second sight last night; I was wearing the necklace. I needed to practice!
My hands fly to the pendant—maybe it fell off. But no, it’s still there. Around my neck. Why is it wet? I look down and a scream rips out of my throat.
I’m covered with blood. So much blood it’s not a bright, garish red, but a deep maroon. It puddles in my lap, soaking onto my bed and spreading across the sheets. I struggle for air as my hand brushes something cold and my hands curl around the handle of a knife.
The blade is caked with blood that has already dried in crooked rivulets. Flinging the knife from me I tumble off the bed and onto the floor where my right hand makes a perfect red handprint in the beige carpet.
