Imaginary

"Well?!" he yells. His face round, red and glistening in a fearful sweat, his vast frame heaving anxiously, as he stands there. "That's gotta make a difference!"

"It don't."

No. No. Go away..... don't lift your arm Dennis, please, mate, leave him....

BANG!

And he falls to the forest floor, blood spurting from his face, dying the crunched up leaves he falls upon; screaming in agony. Just like he always does.

~*~

I sit bolt upright, panting, realising the screaming is not Jack's. It's mine. The sweat I saw upon his face is no longer his. It's mine. Cold. Drenching my clammy face and the pillow I had been lying upon.

I've dreamt it again.

I pull the duvet back, swinging my feet to the floor and shuffling across the room. I keep my eyes down, scared if I look up, he'll be there; the wounds I gave him there, pouring, for all the world to see.

I sprint to the bathroom wanting to avoid the creaky floorboard. I can't wake Sharon or Vicki. Neither of them can ever see me like this, they can't ask questions. They can't.

I step into the bathroom, rushing to the sink to splash cold water onto my face, disguise the hot tears burning in my eyes. It placates me only a little as I turn to head back to my room. I take a deep breath, readying myself. I head back steadily, but it doesn't stop the knot of fear forming in the pit of my stomach. I'm scared. What will I see when I close my eyes next? I don't want to see.

I stare in at my inanimate room, the bedclothes ruffled. And my throat runs dry.

No, please. No sleep. No sleep.

I linger in the doorway
Of alarm clock screaming.
Monsters calling my name.
Let me stay
Where the wind will whisper to me.
Where the raindrops
As they're falling, tell a story

But I won't fight the inevitable. I'll let it go quicker. So I climb heavily back into bed, pulling the duvet haphazardly over me. I sigh, waiting; just waiting. But I seem to have been heard, no feeling of drowsiness takes me. Leaving me to stare blankly at the ceiling above me; the shafts of moonlight dancing erratically across it.

But I realise consciousness is possibly the worse option. I can only think as I lie here, and that is just as bad as reliving, hauling Jack into the woods, that gun shaking in my hands, knowing I'd leave there alone... that I'd have to kill him before the sun came up. I hadn't wanted to ever kill anyone. But he deserved it; needed it. I couldn't have gone in his place. I was needed here, for Vicki... Sharon.

In my field of paper flowers
Candy clouds of lullaby
I lie inside myself for hours
And watch my purple sky fly over me.

Still shivering, haunted by the memory of Jack's gushing blood marking my clothes; I laugh inwardly at myself. Sharon knew nothing. She didn't understand why I longed to be here with her, would rather become a murderer in a heartbeat instead of leave her all alone. I don't understand myself much anymore. The week that has passed since I shot Jack, I've lost sight of myself more and more, retreating into this numb shell no-one dare try and bring me out of. I wish they would. I wish Sharon would. The only thing I have remembered aside from the fact I murdered the most constant figure in my life in cold blood is that I'm longing for her.

In no way she would want to reciprocate, God, she made sure I knew that. I've never felt hurt like that; humiliation when it came to making a move was new to me. Yet the feeling didn't go. It stayed there; and I'd realised with every gaze I stole at her, it wasn't just "making a move" anymore. I'd never looked at her like a sister. I, and shit, this made me feel equally as sick as knowing what I'd done a week ago, I wanted her. What would she say to that? I daren't even contemplate it; just let it fester away inside of me, praying one day soon it'd be gone.

Don't tell me I'm out of touch
With this rampant chaos - your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
The nightmare I built my own world to escape.

What brings me to a level of nausea more intense than any thought before it was, wondering; what if she wanted me too? What if the same fierce burning happened inside her every time she looked at me? Unlikely I knew, shuddering to recall the look of disgust etched into that flawless face as she saw me across my mother's grave on that first meeting. She had treated me with much hostility when I had come to Walford; and it was clear to see that my conviction made me appear dangerous to her. I kind of understood, what with a kid sister to protect. But in the three months I have been here; I already know I'd never harm a hair on either of their heads.... I'd kill anybody who did.

And there was that word again. Kill. I'd done that alright. And as I consoled myself imagining the sweet moment with Sharon lying in my arms, I knew; I knew that soon enough, someone would know that it was me who did Jack in. It drove me crazy every day with worry, and it was getting harder and harder to hide it from Vicki. And Sharon... I was so scared that once someone knew, it would get back to her. And she'd despise me utterly. More than that first meeting; more than any GBH convictions could cause... more than thumping her ex-boyfriend, more than anything possible.

What would I do then?

My throat constricts as if to answer and it's hard to breathe as more tears push themselves from my itchy, tired, dry, sore eyes. I have cried too much these past nights. All for Jack, for what I did to him; for the fear of what the revealation would do when the time came. He'd taught me that remorse was a mug's game, that it showed weakness.

But I bet his opinion changed when it was him looking down the barrel of a gun I was holding; all menace intended. Too late now Jack. Too late now.

In my field of paper flowers
Candy clouds of lullaby
I lie inside myself for hours
And watch my purple sky fly over me.

I roll onto my side, biting down on my lip to suppress the sobs that pulse painfully through me; knowing that if they escape me; I will wake someone. I bunch the pillow fiercely in my fist, my tears wetting the stiff, dried out material once more.

The door creaks open slightly, and I jump. I'm petrified, convinced that if I turn, Jack will be stood there. "All a mug's game Rickman."

"Dennis?"

But it's Sharon, her voice thick with sleep. I can see her shadow stretching out along the wall as she stands in the doorway, some of the light from the landing highlighting her outline more.

I scooch further into the pillow, using all my strength to try and stop my sobs making me shudder.

"I know you're awake. I've heard you." she continues, sounding nervous at having invaded my space.

I stay silent. So she sighs and sweeps into the room, her shadow getting larger and larger. I whimper as I feel her stoop, her hands brushing my burning flesh.

"Sweetheart, are you OK?"

Her voice is so sweet, so full of concern, I want to turn and throw my arms around her. Thank her for learning to give a damn. Instead I lift my shoulders, moving round to meet her gaze, shaking, shaking so bad, all too aware there are tears still visible on my cheeks.

And her face moves to a look of sadness. "Oh-" she murmurs, straightening a little, and not thinking for a moment before wrapping her arms around my neck and drawing me close to sob against her stomach. I wind my arms around her hips, clinging to her desperately like a child.

"What is it darlin'? Tell me what's wrong."

"I can't. Can't. I-I ca-can't!" I splutter, only pacified a little by her sweet scent.

Holding my arms, she steps away from my tight embrace and sinks to a crouching position, lacing her fingers through mine with great difficulty, because I am shaking so much.

"Yes you can." she says gently. "Tell me. I can't see you upset Dennis-"

I am shaking so violently by now, I think I might be sick. The way she looking at me, beautiful green eyes, glittering, wide with questioning sadness, I know I've come too far. I've screwed it up; because there's no way I'll be able to hold back now.

"I thought I heard you scream." she coaxes, running the pad of her thumb across my clammy hand in circles.

I nod, gulping. "B-Bad dream. Only it wasn't a dream.... no..... so sorry Sharon.... it was me - I did it."

"Did what?" she asks calmly, her brow creasing in confusion.

"Didn't want to. H-Had to. Needed to be here for you... couldn't die...."

"Die? Dennis; what happened?"

"I.... I dragged him into the woods.... talking he was.... begging me for his life..... but I knew he couldn't have it..... I had the gun, pressing it into his back..... sweating he was, you could see it.... and I shot him. Can't sleep... see him.... nightmare... but I did it.... shot him... yeah it was me. Right in the face.... blood everywhere.... everywhere... great big gushing hole where his face had been.... I did it... it was me."

She shakes her head desperately. It's obvious she doesn't want to believe me. Her palms sweat like mine, our contact slipping. "No... you.... no... well, who? 
Wh-Who did you shoot?"

"I- I mu- murdered Jack... Dal.... Dalton. It was me."

 Swallowed up the sound of my screaming
Cannot cease the fear of silent nights
Oh how I long for deep sleep dreaming
The goddess of imaginary light.

The End