“Casey! Are you in there? Open up!”
Outside, in the corridor, Peter tested the door. This wasn’t like Casey not to answer. She must have heard him.
He cocked his head, listening for signs of life from within. “C’mon, Casey! What’s going on?”
Finally, her voice sounded from the other side. “Just a minute, Dad.”
Casey splashed water over the cuts on her legs and her hand, cursing the tenacious blood that continued to ooze.
Patting them dry as best she could, Casey straightened her top and glanced at her reflection. She was repulsed by what she saw but there was no time to do anything more. She couldn’t put her father off.
What was he doing here at this hour anyway?
Unlocking the door, Casey slid it aside and looked up at her father who recoiled upon seeing her.
“Christ, Casey!” he gasped, pushing past her and into the apartment. He spied the mess on the floor in the kitchen and noted her smartphone nearby. It was vibrating again with an incoming call from Sasquatch.
“What the bloody hell?”
“What are you doing here, Dad?” she shot back. “It’s gotta be like, ridiculous o’clock?”
Peter paced around the kitchen bench, retrieving her phone from the tiled floor. He held it up, revealing a cracked screen through which she could see Scott’s caller ID.
“Scott called me,” he replied angrily as he tapped the answer button on her phone and took the call.
Casey stood awkwardly, hands on hips as Peter reassured Scott that he was with her now, glaring at his daughter as he spoke. She couldn’t do anything except wait.
Finally, Peter ended the call and set the phone down on the counter. He continued to glare at her for a long moment. Then, he closed his eyes and breathed in and out audibly, calming himself. His expression morphed accordingly; his anger replaced by grim concern.
“What’s going on, Casey?” he repeated. “Seems you made a hell of a scene over there.”
Casey felt her cheeks flush and she looked away from him. She reached for the door and slid it closed as she tried to come up with something, anything, to answer him.
“It was nothing, Dad,” she answered weakly. “A disagreement.”
“A disagreement? Casey, Scott was pretty shaken when he called me, and he wouldn’t call me if it was just a disagreement.”
Lifting a hand up to her forehead, Casey closed her eyes, trying to remain calm even as her defensive hackles threatened to stand up in the presence of her father’s questioning.
“Look,” she blurted. “I can’t give you any other explanation. We had a fight…an argument. Friends do argue sometimes, Dad.”
Peter shook his head. “Bullshit. You and I both know that Scotty is the least argumentative person we’ve ever known.”
“C’mon, Dad,” Casey retorted in exasperation. “Don’t pressure me, please. It’s late.”
“You’re damned right it’s late! It’s nearly midnight. But, I’m not going to stand here and listen to you blow me off this time. Jesus, Case—look at you!” Peter thrust his hand out, gesturing to her appearance.
His forceful observation caused her to blink. For his part, Peter felt terrible for having said what he did and his shoulders slackened, adopting a less intimidating posture.
“I’m worried sick about you…your mother is most certainly worried sick about you. Whatever it is that’s eating you up…it’s starting to show.”
Casey watched her father begin to falter. Try as she might, Casey could not completely dismiss him because she knew, deep down, that what he said was true.
Peter set his keys down on the counter and slowly took out a stool. He sat down and rested his arms on the surface.
“I’ve been willing to accept, for a long time, the thing between you and your mother has been more about her not being able to let go of you—to let you get on and make a life for yourself.”
Casey watched her father as a weariness descended over him.
“But I’m beginning to understand the worry she has for you, Casey. You’re so withdrawn. So solitary. And what’s with those cuts?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she looked down at her hand, at the congealing blood and grimaced. Slowly, she went over to the sink, turned the tap and ran cold water gently over it.
“Dad, it’s not what you think,” she said softly. “I’m not try—”
“Well, Jesus, Casey, what is it then!?”
Peter’s voice caused her to jump. She turned to face him.
“I’m tired, Dad,” she said, turning off the tap and reaching for a dishcloth to press to the wound. “Tired and frustrated. I just…can’t relax.”
“Well, what does Geddie think about all of this? Surely she would have some idea how to—I dunno—fix it.”
Casey stiffened at the mention of Kirkwood and she closed her eyes tightly.
Peter, however, was unmoved. “No, no, Casey. Not this time,” he growled. “You’re not going to keep blowing me off whenever I ask you about her.”
“What’s there to tell?” Casey protested, as she bent down to clean up the broken glass on the floor. “The sessions are boring, Dad. She offers nothing but typical feel-good bullshit about living as a recipient and…I don’t want to keep being reminded that I’m a bloody recipient!”
“Why do you keep going to see her then?” Peter challenged. “Why not find another therapist?”
“Because I don’t have much of a choice, Dad. She’s been assigned. She’s the transplant clinic’s go-to screw!”
Looking down at the mess from the cupboards, she shuffled across and stooped down, picking up the spilt containers.
Peter watched her, grimacing as he wrestled with what to say. “I’m scared, Casey,” he offered finally. “For what you might do if you don’t stop isolating yourself.”
Reaching into his wallet, Peter took out a photograph and handed it over to her. Casey gazed at the image of herself, taken years ago on her Asian trek. Sweat drenched tank top, grubby hiking shorts, her backpack laying at her feet, she was standing on a summit overlooking a lush rain forest, a hiking stick in her muscular arm; the other hand rested on her hip. She stood tall and proud, her expression confident, her smile victorious, eyes wide and beaming.
It was as if she was looking at a stranger.
“What happened to that young woman, Casey?” Peter whispered. “Where did you go? Why did you go?”
Casey began to weep as she clutched the photograph.
“I can’t…” she began to say through quiet sobs.
“Look,” Peter wept. “I don’t care about this rubbish with Prishna and I don’t even care about the kind of company you might be keeping. But something is eating away at you, Casey—something deep down. I know you might not believe it, but whatever it is—we can work it out…together. You and me and your mum. But you’ve got to allow us.”
Casey seemed very small. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 10.
Thunder rumbles all around. The deep guttural moan is carried on its back.
She is here again.
The road stretches before her. Rain peppers the inky bitumen while disembodied flashes of light erupt across a blood-red sky above.
Dread seeps through her.
She knows what is about to happen.
Searching around in the darkness, she tries to orient herself, tries to remember.
Forks of electricity tear at the fabric of the sky, and in her mind’s eye she sees the road sign, its reflective surface illuminating like a beacon in the darkness. She squints, tries to focus, but the flash makes the writing on its surface impossible to interpret.
She curses as the darkness swallows up the image.
Rubbing her eyes with her hands, she becomes aware of someone nearby. Shivering, she stands and turns. The shadow of the human figure stands behind her, several yards away, shrouded in fog.
She squints through the mist, trying to focus.
&n
bsp; There is an object behind the figure. Metallic. Man-made.
Is it a vehicle? A car?
Beams of light puncture the darkness from that direction and she thrusts her hand out against the blinding white.
The assailant steps forward. The moan rolls across the sky and the assailant breaks into a run.
Flinching, she turns and tries to flee.
Inertia weighs against her but she fights it, pumping her legs as fast as they will carry her.
The assailant is gaining. She panics and screams into the darkness only to be taunted by the moaning and the thunder above her.
A lightning flash erupts and she thrusts out her arm in an effort to shield herself until it dissipates.
When she draws her arm down, her eyes go wide. The assailant is front of her.
She screams as she crashes into him and is thrown backwards like a rag doll.
The low moan gains in volume and pitch, filling with torment and pain.
FLASH!
The assailant is on her in an instant. He pins her arms above her head with a giant, gloved hand. With the other hand, he wrenches at her jeans, grabbing them at the waist and tearing them from her as if they were paper.
She screams, writhing impotently in her assailant’s grip as he pins her pelvis to the ground with his knee. He tightens his grip on her wrists before reaching down, between her legs. With a sickening realisation, she feels him clawing at her inner thighs.
FLASH!
She cries out in protest, her voice melding with the moan from the sky and she draws power from it. She recruits it, channels it into every single muscle fibre. As the fingers begin to penetrate, she unleashes a massive convulsion, so powerful that she lifts herself from the roadway and upends her attacker, throwing him backwards.
The effort has spent her. She flails wildly, unable to get to her feet. The clouds above shift and belch, turning the rain once more into a deep, ruby red. The metallic flavour of blood stings her lips.
FLASH!
The assailant pounces again, throwing himself at her and pinning her to the bitumen. His gloved hand slams down over her mouth, preventing her from screaming. He raises a fist above his head. Her eyes go wide.
The fist crashes into her chest. Blood, bone and tissue spray upward before them as his fist disappears into the cavity. Though there is no pain, the screams from above intensify, becoming unbearable in her ears.
The arm retracts from her chest. The hand holds a bloody, beating object.
A maniacal grin. A disembodied cackle. Rivulets of crimson course down over a masculine jaw.
Insane with terror, drenched in blood, she is too paralysed to move. Yet, an inexplicable strand of curiosity anchors her in this moment.
The beating and bloody heart, crawling with maggots. A black slick oozes from the severed arteries and veins and drips over the hand and down into the cavity the figure has made.
FLASH!
An onrush of images assails her, flickering and flashing like a poorly aligned film reel.
The road before her. The figure, shrouded in darkness. The vehicle, stationary by the road. The road sign, illuminated by headlights so bright, the writing on it is too hard to see. The rain. The blood. Her blood. Her screams. The heart.
The face…
As the screams lash the darkness all around, the face of the young woman, contorted in anguish and disfigured by ragged slashes, thrusts itself towards her, howling in terror.
“HELP ME!”
Casey screamed into the darkness, writhing in her bed as she tore herself once more from the nightmare. Tendrils of the dream clung to her, refusing to surrender as horrifying imagery continued to flash before her. The screams in the dreamworld melded with her own here and now along with the taunting, disembodied cackle.
Casey struggled to open her eyes. Terror consumed her. The heart beat inside her so forcefully she could feel it thumping against her chest. Clawing at the darkness, Casey’s hand found the thick body of her bedside lamp and she clutched it with a vice-like grip. She ripped the lamp from the table causing the electrical wire to snap taut like a whip.
She flung the lamp at the nightmare, obliterating the images as it sailed through the air before striking the edge of the wardrobe. The glass shade shattered into dozens of glimmering shards. The ruined body spun in the air as it fell to the floor.
The sign on the road. That face. The scream. Her scream…
Casey bolted upright, swatting at the air in front of her but the nightmare clung to her, suffocating her. Her mind reeled, tumbling toward the edge of madness.
With a sudden burst of superhuman strength, Casey sprang from her bed. Her body slammed into the brick wall adjacent, her face striking the door frame so hard that she vaguely heard the sound of bone snapping. A vicious cut opened up beside her nose. She would not be stopped.
The nightmare would not be stopped.
She scrambled on her hands and knees into the living area, as though the nightmare were chasing her. Thrusting outwards, she batted at the air, trying to stop it from catching her. She was wailing now. Tears streamed from her unfocused eyes as she begged silently, desperately for it to stop.
She collapsed to the floor then rolled onto her back, feeling the warmth of the blood that oozed from her nose and the gash on her face.
Somewhere in her fractured mind, Casey touched a spark of anger. Anger at the nightmare that refused to yield. Anger at the terror of the unfamiliar face that cried out to her, begging her for help.
Enough!
Casey recruited that anger and nourished it. Adrenaline surged and she used it to consume the terror. A single, pure thought replaced it.
Springing to her feet, Casey whipped her head around, flinging a long, thin spatter of blood across the room. It splashed across the portrait of Jeanne Hebuterne.
Letting out a final scream, Casey rushed blindly forward in one last attempt to obliterate the nightmare.
The sign on the road. That face. The scream. Her scream…
Raising her arms over her head, balling her hands into fists, Casey flung them downward with all the power she could muster.
She crashed through the glass pane of the sliding door, causing it to explode in a shower of jagged shards that tore at her skin, her face and her arms. Blood splattered everywhere, melding with the cascades of ruined glass. Casey screamed into the night, so loudly that passing pedestrians on the street below stopped and turned in the direction of the sound to see glittering glass billowing from the balcony.
Casey crumpled as she hurtled forward, finally wrenching herself from the grip of the nightmare.
The barrier of the balcony rushed towards her. Her forehead slammed into the rendered surface. As flashes of light popped before her eyes, she clung to her consciousness before the world turned sideways.
___
The ambulance sped through the night, swerving in and out of the midnight traffic, slowing only to run a series of red lights as it raced towards the city. Red and blue lights flashed. Sirens wailed urgently.
Inside the vehicle, a pair of paramedics struggled with a single, bloodied occupant. She was thrashing wildly, screaming through a sedative haze as she tried to slap away the oxygen being held over her face. Her screams drowned out the ambulance’s sirens. The female paramedic holding the mask ducked and weaved, trying to avoid the blood spatters that Casey was spitting in her direction, while her counterpart struggled to secure her wrists so that she couldn’t hit either of them. He continually kept lifting his own gloved hands up and away as Casey wheeled her forearms free. Blood streamed from dozens of wounds on her skin, some of which had shards of glass protruding from them.
Frustrated, the paramedic held back and watched her swinging arm, waiting for an opportunity to grab her wrist. He met his colleague’s eyes and he scowled. Spying an opportunity, he darted forward and snapped his wrist around Casey’s, gripping it like a vice. With a great effort, he finally managed to shove her arm down and he sec
ured the leather strap around it.
Finally, he thought, hissing air out from between his teeth.
Without pausing, he repeated the action with her other hand, then slumped back.
Casey screamed as she pulled against her bonds, desperately but impotently.
“Miss, calm down,” the female paramedic pleaded with her. “Please calm down. You’re safe here. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
“Nooooo!” Casey wailed underneath the mask. “Pleeeasee noooo!”
The woman looked worriedly at her colleague sitting across from her. “Can we give any more sedative?”
The male paramedic shrugged. “I’ve already given enough to knock out a horse.”
They both looked down at Casey’s wrists and arms. The muscles in her forearms were so taut that they were quivering. The fabric of her restraints was very nearly cutting into her wrists. The whites of her knuckles stood out.
The female paramedic grimaced, watching Casey fight as hard as she could to keep from submitting to unconsciousness again.
For it was there that the nightmares lay in wait.
She blinked furiously at the woman holding the mask over her face, trying to reach her with her eyes. She looked at the name patch on the paramedic’s breast pocket: Mel.
“Pleeasse, Mel,” she cried, weeping uncontrollably. “Don’t let me dream.”
Something in her voice caught Mel’s attention and she met Casey’s eyes. She expected Casey’s pupils to be unfocused pinpricks by now. Instead, they were abnormally wide and focused. They chilled Mel to her core.
“Screw it,” the male paramedic muttered, swivelling in his seat and grabbing at a box on a shelf.
He quickly drew up a vial of sedative into a syringe and attached a needle to it before plunging the syringe into Casey’s thigh.
Casey cried out in protest. Then, an overwhelming warmth flooded through her. Her resistance collapsed. The struggle left her and her muscles let go. Gurgling underneath the mask, Casey’s eyes fluttered and closed.
Mel turned towards the driver. “How long, Brian?”
“Five minutes,” came his determined response. “We’re almost there.”