Subject 375 by Nikki Owen

Author:Nikki Owen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
Published: 2016-08-11T18:48:33+00:00

Chapter 17

“I am bending over the priest’s body,” I say. “He is still warm. There is no heartbeat, no pulse. Blood pools everywhere, thick, sticky. It drips down the steps like treacle and trickles toward the altar. Through the priest’s neck there is an entrance wound, one slash, slick, neat. A knife. Clean like butter. The urge to stick my finger in the hole is incredible. I stand up. Fingermarks at a crime scene. Not good.”

Kurt’s chair creaks. “What happens next in the dream?”

I smack my lips together, mouth coarse, dry. “The rope binding the priest’s hands and ankles is taut now; I track its course, woven as it is around his limbs. There—by the altar,” I say, as if I can see it, touch it, “that is where each juncture is secured. I stride over and inspect them. Tight. Immovable. I walk back to the body. There is more blood now, deep red, almost black. I can smell the iron. The blood is oozing from the wound and, when I inspect the arms, there are slashes there, too. He never stood a chance.”

“Then?”

I shift in my seat, the recollection of the dream uncomfortable. “Footsteps. I freeze, listen. There is no time. Whoever it is, they are getting closer. My eyes dart left to right. The knife … it’s nowhere to be seen. I check, but no. Nothing.”

“What do you dream next?”

I close my eyes, think. “The footsteps. They are nearer.”

“And what do you do?”

I inhale. “In the end, it is an easy decision. I turn and run. As fast as I can. Something tells me to, I don’t know, a voice in my head? An instinct I don’t recall learning? It urges me to go, to leave an invisible trace. To never be found. As if I don’t exist.”

Kurt’s mobile phone shrills.

My eyes fly open and I catch my breath. Kurt has been listening to me explain what I remember of my recurring dream: the priest, his death, his blood. All detail that I know about, yet do not recall being actively part of; instincts that kick-start in me, yet ones that I do not recollect learning.

Kurt’s eyes are narrowed on me, observing, his mobile phone shrill dying off. A pen dangles from his fingers. “Does the dream always end with the footsteps? With you running away? Always has you bending over Father O’Donnell’s body?”

I nod. “Yes.” I touch my scalp. The room feels as if it is spinning slightly.

Kurt twists the pen in his fingers. “It sounds as if it is just that: a dream. Made up, fabricated. Because in the dream, you ran away, but of course, in the real world, you were caught, you were not invisible. And you do exist.”

“But I don’t even recall being there. So why am I dreaming about it?”

“Your mind will conjure up all sorts of scenarios to protect you from the trauma. From the reality.”

I touch my forehead. My mind. My Asperger’s. This strange, sickly sweet room. Everything that has happened to me recently—it has all affected my mind more than I thought.

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