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I had the same dream about Italy for years, and I always woke up at the sound of the crash. Tonight was different. As my eyes closed, the dream picked up where it left off. The loud bang was like the ding of a bell at the beginning of a boxing match.It was the feeling of terror that finally opened the door—the impossible feeling of dread and fear I was living in that pulled the curtain back and revealed the full nightmare.

* * * *

The door to our hotel room burst open, and a rush of people ran inside. My mother screamed at the top of her lungs. I jumped over the bed and hid between the nightstand and the wall. I didn't even think about it; the instinct to hide kicked in.

Three men were dressed in all black from head to toe: black suits, black undershirts, black ties, and black shoes. The only spit of color was red handkerchiefs in the breast pockets.

The first man through the door had slick brown hair and olive-colored skin. His face was square, and his jaw was covered with a thick, grizzly beard. A scar went through the center of his right eyebrow, exposing the only soft, pink skin on his face.

The other two men were taller and leaner. One guy had brown hair with white streaks salting the sandiness, and the other was blonde. They almost looked like siblings. They had the same blue eyes, same round faces, and same thin lips. They even stood with the same wide stance and dangling arms that looked too thin for their broad bodies.

The square-faced man quickly grabbed my mother and covered her mouth with a white cloth. She tussled and fought, punching and kicking until her limbs went limp and her eyes closed. My small body shook as tears streamed down my face.

“Get the girl,” the man holding my pendulous mother said.

The other two men looked in my direction with simultaneous head flicks. They stood still but only briefly. The man with blonde hair darted in my direction with his arms out. His lips were twisted, and his teeth were bared like a rabid raccoon lunging forward.

I tried to scramble under the bed as I yelled, “Mom! Mom! Wake up!” My feeble legs pushed and bucked. My toes dug into the plush carpet, scraping with urgency to get away.

I was almost all the way under the bed when the man grabbed my ankle and yanked me out like a farmer plucking a piglet from its mother's nipple. He pulled so hard it felt like my leg was going to pop out of the socket. I wiggled and flung my arms, trying to break free.

His giant hands pinched and bit at my skin as he gained control of me. The man's hand slid across my face, and I chomped down hard. Warm blood smeared my lips. I could taste the sour and tangy iron in my mouth.

“Ah! Fuck! The little bitch bit me!” he yelled, releasing me to look at the wound on his hand.

“Just fucking get her, Shit-head!” the scarred man barked.

I tried to run, but my muscles didn't want to work properly. They were like cooked spaghetti, flaccid, weak, and buckling under my weight.

The blonde man became more aggressive, grabbing me so hard his fingertips hit the bone. I let out a blood-curdling scream. He put me in a bear hug and lifted me off the ground. “Gotcha,” he said playfully. “You ain't going anywhere.”

“Let me go! Mom! Mom, wake up!” I screamed, reaching my arms desperately toward her. But she didn't respond. Her eyes stayed shut, and her body was still. Through my screams, I cried. I wept for my mother, uncertain if she was alive or dead. I wept for myself, scared of what would happen to me next. I wept from the fear that my life was over.

“Will you shut her the fuck up?” the man holding my mother said.

Before I could react, the third man lurched forward and covered my mouth with the same type of white cloth that was used on my mother. I took a few deep, frantic breaths. My eyesconnected with the man holding my mom. He grinned a big, crooked, lopsided grin. Then everything went black.

Chapter Six

Poppy

––––––––

I'm going fucking crazy. I need my medicine or I'm going to lose my fucking mind.

The nightmare that had haunted me since childhood was getting more vivid than ever before. It was happening; I was going insane, and it would only get worse. It wouldn't be long before reality and my imagination were blended so well I wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Without my medication, there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Schizophrenia is a bitch.

“Breakfast,” Vega said as he closed the door behind him. He put the plate down on the stool and pushed it forward.

I stared at him as I rested on my side on the cot. My hands were tucked under my head, and my knees were pulled up. I didn't say a word. I remained stagnant, silent, and vacant of emotions.

“Seriously? You're just going to lay there like a fucking mute and glare at me like I'm some asshole?”

“You're not like an asshole. Youarean asshole.”

“I'm doing you a favor.”