"Vania! Vania, open up!"
Vania groaned and opened her eyes; darkness greeted her. The fist on the door beat to the same rhythm as the pounding in her head. She stumbled to the door, leaning heavily on the wall.
"Okay. What is it?"
"Open up!" the voice demanded, pounding on the wood becoming louder.
"I can't recognize your voice, sir," Vania replied. "Name yourself. Tell me what the problem is. Then I'll decide whether I want to open my door or not." She rested her head on the cool wood of the doorframe, letting her eyes close.
"Vania! Open the door!" The fist hammered faster. "For all the love of the gods, you're an enforcer, woman! If you're not even going to do the damned job, don't sully yourself with the uniform!"
Cringing, Vania straightened, took a breath, then replied in a calmer tone than she felt, "I said: tell me your name and what the problem is."
"It's Adar! Cavin's uncle! Laria's father! OPEN THE DOOR!"
"Oh, now you come to me? You didn't want me around before," Vania muttered. Leaning closer to the door, she asked, "What is it, Adar?"
Something heavy made the door shake, a loud thud from outside punctuating the sudden stilling of the pounding.
"Adar?" Vania asked.
Heavy, panted breaths sounded from the other side of the door; a quiet voice pleaded, "No. No, please. N—" A moist, squishy thud sounded mutely as the voice stopped.
Vania unlocked the door, throwing it open wide. The arm of Adar fell across her feet and she gasped. His entrails and organs glistened in a pile by his feet. Footsteps echoed down the empty street, fading away. He'd been murdered right at her doorstep.
"No," she whispered, her knees shaking, then going weak. She landed hard on the wooden floor, knees brushing his head, his arm ended up resting in her lap, the knuckles broken and bloodied.
Vania sat up, gasping and shaking. She wrapped the blankets tightly around herself as she began trembling violently, though she was drenched in sweat. Slowly, her heart resumed a normal pace, but her shaking didn't stop.
"Right... outside... my door," she whispered, over and over again, a horrified mantra, rocking herself back and forth. Dad used to ask about my dreams; he always said they had meaning, even if they weren't literally true.
"Right... outside... my door," she continued to whisper, fighting back the tears as she pictured herself as a child, her father holding her as she wailed about a nightmare. Her mother always joined them, bringing steaming mugs of chocolate, one for each of them. Mom always said a dream that takes place in your home or near it means something's going to happen to someone you care about.
"Right... outside... my door." Someone I care about. Something bad is going to happen. To someone I care about. She froze, then bolted out of bed and outside, pausing just enough to slam the door behind her. "Derry!"
She winced at the cobblestones striking her bare feet, but didn't turn to retrieve her boots; she ran faster once the road became dirt.