Danger Level Unknown (dreamnotfound)

Chapter six

"I think we might be able to help each other" The man reaches down his hand to help me off of the floor, a sly smile playing at his lips. "You can't read my danger level, and I can't interpret your eyes, so niether of us will know if the other lies. However, I do suggest you listen to me" Clay has an underlying tone of something sinister in his voice. His words intrigue me, and something at the back of my mind wants him to never stop talking to me. I nod my head slowly and motion for the man to sit.

His weight compresses the floorboards of the usually quiet home, triggering many small creaks to escape the structure. I dont want him this close to me, I want him gone, out of my house, his unreadable presence foreign, yet semi-comforting. I fear the part of my mind that doesn't want him to leave, the part that defends Clay, the part that loves him. Or does it? Im just overthinking, I need to calm down. The piercing emerald colored eyes that peer into the depths of my thoughts once again bore holes into my skull, hoping to pull out my source of free will.

"I don't pretend to know what you're thinking about, but I know you dont trust me. I just want you to give me a chance and if the answer is no, I leave, and we pretend this conversation never happened." For some reason, I'm inclined to go along with Clay, to follow him blindly, to trust him and do what he says. So I nod, and then allow his somehow comforting voice to ricochet into my mind.

"I found this in an old box my mom had. Her and you are the only people I've ever told about, you know. She said that if I ever found someone seemingly immune to my gift, to give them this. She said anything would make sence, once it is consumed." The man fiddles with a small vial of liquid. The contents seem to vibrate and surge with energy and color that I regret not being able to see. Clay has a forlorn look on his face, almost regretful, as though he has done something wrong by just touching the glass of the small bottle. He reaches out a mournful arm, and places the liquid into my hand. The cold sufcae braces my skin gently, but I seize up immediately. Everything in my body wants the liquid, my brain yearns for the unknown taste, longs to feel the substance flow through my veins and overtake me.

"W-what is this?" I ask, slight panic seeping into my voice involuntarily.

"Just drink it, George" Clay has venom behind his words, something angry, something very sinister. I knew something was wrong, but I just cant seem to disobey him. So, I pull the small latch open and press the cold glass against soft lips, and cautiously pour the contents onto my tounge. It tastes of sweet honey, with underling tones of citrus. A farmilliar citrus, almost from a dream. And then it hits me, the dreams. The ones where my father kills me on that beach. The citrus disappears with this realisation, replaced by gasoline and smoke laced with what I can only describe to be regret. "I'm sorry, you just knew too much" suddenly Clay is not Clay, but my father, holding a gun to my head, and we aren't in my bedroom, but a cold, dark room, with nthing in it but the smell of rust and antiseptic. How did I get here? Why? The sides of my world fade, shaky tears seeping from my unwilling eyes. He can't win, not yet, I wont let him...

I awake on a farmilliar beach, palm trees along the shoreline, and waves crashing against solid remorse. The same feeling of weakness floods my body, absorbing my thoughts, forcing me to my knees and sending shards of glass into my heart, as farmilliar footsteps approach. I feel myself longing for the sensation my brain has associated with death. However, this time still feels different, like there's something missing. The beach setting leaves, slowly collapsed into darkness, flickers of reality and free thought infiltrating the scenario. Suddenly, my feet move, but not of my own accord. They force me towards my father, bind my hands and stay put in front of his blade.

I see myself, tied helplessly to a chair, forced to comsume liquid I could only assume to be a sleep drug. My own body betraying me, my own memories replaying slowly like instant rewind at a stadium. This is wrong, this is bad, this cant be happening, this can't be happening, this isn't real, this isn't fair, no, no, no, no, no, no. I dont want to see this, no, no, NO. One punch. Right to my face, head swinging slowly, unresponsive. My fingers fly to my face, and I feel blood, dripping down my eyes and teasing the edge of my lips, but I do not feel the pain, not the impact of the punch. It's as though I'm living my own life in the third person, seeing the contact, unable to move my physical body, but still present in the moment, hyperaware of my reality.