Scream 3 [✓]

Chapter 13

Nightmares.

They were different for everyone.

When you really thinl about it, it was like your own literal version of hell. You can't escape your mind and your mind was the one holding you hostage in a horror movie it had created.

There was no panic button in your nightmares, and in the vivid ones where you couldn't tell reality from a dream, it was even more crippling.

Then it felt like it was not a dream anymore, because you literally experienced it.

It stops feeling like imagination and instead when you woke up, it was a memory of something you'd gone through as if it had actually happened.

You had another one of those nightmares and although they were almost always about the same exact things—people dying — this one was way more terrifying than the others.

Usually in those dreams, you would be a bystander, a victim if you will, either watching someone close to you die. Or you're just running away yourself, not daring to look back at who was chasing you.

But this time you weren't running away.

This time you were looking through the killer's eyes, as if you had been the one committing the terrible crime.

As if you were the one killing your friends. Innocent people.

Just thinking back on it made you almost feel as if your chest collapsed on itself. You didn't realize you got distracted on another mental tangent until a voice called out. "Miss (L/N)?"

Kincaid was standing at his desk, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. You were seated beside him, absentmindedly gazing at a stack of paperwork.

You shook your head and shifted your attention to the man, capturing his concerned eyes for a moment before looking back down at your lap. "Sorry, yes?"

"I was asking if you were feeling ok."

You tried to brush off the last remnants of your nightmare, yet it still kept lingering in the back of your mind. "Yeah, I am. Detective, what do you know about movie trilogies?"

"Call me Mark," Kincaid insisted. A deep crease formed between his brows as swiped his thumb over the pen he was holding . "All I know about trilogies is that in the third one, all bets are off."

Well that certainly didn't light up the situation. If anything, it just made your insides curl.

You kept your stare down on your hands that were now resting on your knees. "Did you request this case?"

"No. They tend to put me on the ones that deal with business. I grew up here, and I know my way around the studios," he stated matter-of-factly.

You couldn't help but felt slightly jealous. Who wouldn't want to travel around in this city? "Must be exciting. Beautiful place, beautiful people."

"To me, Hollywood is about death."

You pulled your face back at his words, moreso stunned by the sharp conviction of them as opposed to the content. "Excuse me?"

"I'm a homicide detective," Kincaid reminded you as he gazed around the office. "When you see what I see day in and day out, the violence that people do to each other, you get haunted. I think you know about that."

Your eyebrows cemented into a deep frown to match the confusion on your face. "What do you mean?"

The corners of his lips twitched up, but it was gone as soon as it happened. "I know what it's like to see ghosts that don't go away. To be watching a scary movie in your head, whether you want it ot not, watching it alone."

If that wasn't the most relatable thing you'd heard all day, you didn't know what was. There was a warm feeling spreading in your chest when you realized you weren't as alone as you initially thought.

It was helpful having someone to relate to. It made you feel less alone.

You couldn't even fathom what this guy had seen in his years of duty. Still, comparing your situations was all but impossible.

Kincaid went after criminals.

In your case, criminals went after you.

"Ghosts are tough," you pointed out, pulling your lips to the side to fight an upcoming grin. "You can't shoot ghosts."

"Can't arrest ghosts," he corrected you. "But the best way to stop being haunted is to be with people. You're here, you're not hiding. You've done the right thing, Miss (L/N). What did you know about your mother?"

You tried to hide the discomfort on your face at the subject, averting your eyes that held obvious pain as your shoulders deflated. "I used to think I had the perfect mom, perfect family. And now with this... I don't know. I don't know who my mom was or what she did. I feel like I'm learning about my mom for the first time."

All of the mixed feelings from today had dissipated, and now you were just left with the reality of your mom having had a secret life you had no clue about.

The fact that she knew Maureen Prescott made things so much more complicated too.

Cotton Weary had been involved with her so naturally, he was gone as well. Now all three of them were dead.

Kincaid pushed himself up off the desk. "Here's the deal. I'm off to search the soundstage. That's good news."

You brought up one of your hands to twirl a lock of (H/C) around your finger. "How is that good news?"

The warm and playful look in his brown irises didn't match his body language. "Because that means we're dealing with ordinary, flesh and blood killers. And I know how to handle guys like that."

You gulped, already expecting the answer he was going to give you, and you weren't going to like it. "How?"

"Catch them, or kill them," he said in a rough, promising tone. As you watched his facial expression, you came to the conclusion that he meant every word, and you didn't know how to feel about it.

Obviously, he was a cop so it was his job to catch criminals.

But no matter what they did, you didn't want to see your boys locked up or even worse, dead. You could barely cope with the feelings of losing them the first time.

You were trying too hard to balance your morals with all of this, but it seemed with each new killing rearing its ugly head up, it became harder and harder with your mind in shambles.

You were going to have to make a decision sooner or later. Justice and a peaceful life, or them.

Kincaid readied himself, snagging up his holstered gun and car keys.

Just before he took off to leave, you asked him a question, not stopping how small and insecure your voice was. "Hey Mark, what's your favourite scary movie?"

The man paused as his fingers tensed against his side, pressing his palms face down against the wall as his face dipped down to your level, penetrating eyes boring into yours. "My life."