Slated

Chapter Nine

*sorry for not updating. I will try to every week. Xoxo -Hollie. (Also, you can ask me anything in the comments or even message me!).
"Can I at least have a book?"

"No. You're supposed to be resting," Mum says, and crosses her arms.

"I can rest, and read."

"No."

"They would let me in hospital," I lie.

"You're not in hospital, you're on my watch, and you are resting. Go to sleep," she says, and leaves again, shooing Sebastian out and shutting the door.

I can convince myself she means well. But it is hard to rest with someone sneaking up on you
every two minutes to make sure you are resting.

I close my eyes. My head still feels like it is being crushed in a vice, though it is better than this morning, when even the sound of Sebastian purring vibrated through my skull like drums, and I'd asked for him to be kept out. But I'm afraid to sleep. Afraid that dream will find me again. Now the injection has worn off, anything could happen.

My nightmares in hospital were terrifying, but vague. Most of the time I couldn't remember much of what happened; I just woke up screaming. Often running from something, without knowing what it was.

But this one was different. I remember it as vividly in my mind as if it is happening on replay before my eyes, right now, over and over again. I can feel the pain, see my broken, bloody fingers. It is so real.

Real like a memory etched within, stark and clear; the kind so horrible you can never forget, no matter how hard you try. But memories are one thing I am not supposed to have. Nothing from before being Slated. It is almost like drawing with my left hand yesterday brought it back, from some hidden place, up to the surface.

Who is he? Is he real, or just some nightmare creature that inhabits my mind? In the dream I never see his face. First the light dazzles my eyes, then I can't see through the pain and tears. But my dream self knew him, even recognised his footsteps.

One thing is certain and sure. If he is real, I don't want to know.

"Hmmm?"

"Sorry. Did I wake you?" Amy.

I was actually asleep; in a black and silent place, dreamless and still. Maybe the drugs haven't worn off.

"It's okay. I'm sick of being in bed. Can I get up?"

Amy shakes her head. "She'll never let you. They said you were to stay in bed all day. Mum always follows the letter, whether she believes it, or not."

"I'm so bored."

"Poor you. How is your head?"

"Not great."

"Can I get you anything? Are you hungry yet?"

"No."

Amy turns to go.

"Wait. There is one thing you could do for me."

"Yes?"

"My sketch pad. She took it away so I can't draw."

She hesitates. Goes into her room and comes back. "Is this any good?" She holds out a small blank notebook and pencil.

"Perfect. Thanks."

"Keep it hidden." She winks.

I prop myself upright on pillows, and turn away from the door so my body shields the notebook. Listening carefully for any little creak that might be Mum sneaking up the stairs.

But with the comforting scratch of pencil on paper, I get more and more absorbed. Escaping from myself, the dream; everything.

I am somebody else.

"Lucky that was me."

I jump.

Amy shuts the door and puts a tray with soup on the table next to me.

"What are you drawing?"

I show her. Half-Mum, half-dragon. In a variety of poses. Breathing fire; flying over the house.

She laughs. "Oh, God. Don't let her see those. We'll have to hide this away, and—"

She stops and frowns, looking at my hand. My left hand, holding the pencil. Dread trickles into my stomach.

"I thought you were right-handed. When you drew me, you used your right hand."

"I am! I was drawing with my right hand. I just shifted it across to pass you the notebook."

"Oh. Sorry; of course," she says and smiles again.

My Levo vibrates: 4.6.

"Chocolate?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Sebastian."

She opens the door and moments later returns carrying Sebastian, and dumps him on my lap. He meows, indignant at being kept out all day. I pet him and he flops down, purring. His paws knead against my side through the quilt, claws in and out.

"Will you eat a little?" Amy says.

"In a while."

Once my levels get back to 5 she leaves to watch TV downstairs. I wrap myself so tight around Sebastian, that he squirms and protests until I loosen my arms.

Why did I lie?

In that moment, I was afraid. Of Amy? This is insane. But the fear was there, it was real. As if Amy could be another one wielding a brick.

I hold up my left hand. Turn it side to side. The fingers are whole and perfect; there are no scars. I can almost convince myself it never happened, that my subconscious mind made it all up. That realising I could draw better with my left hand somehow triggered the dream. It can't be a memory. I'm Slated; I don't have memories.

But somehow a sick certainty sits like a crushing weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Every instinct of self-preservation screams inside and won't be ignored.

No one must know.