by loneliness, by a loss so profound it was as if she had suffered a death.
Louise closed her eyes for a brief moment, and she could actually see the girl as clearly as if she'd been standing in front of her.
She was a small, frail child with a mop of curly red hair and an infectious smile. There was love and adoration radiating from the girl, and something else, a bond. The bond that only grew between mother and child.
The feeling was so strong, the vision so real, Louise shuddered in the darkness again, pressing a hand to her pounding forehead, then to her eyes to try to block out the vision.
The girl was now grown, a young woman, and she was in some kind of danger.
Louise knew it as sure as she knew that she was lying in her own bedroom, in her own tidy little house.
Shuddering in the darkness, Louise blindly reached for the bottle of prescription medicine her therapist had prescribed to help ease the awful headaches, headaches that only came when she had these recurring nightmares.
Fumbling, she tried to snap off the bottle cap. It took all her energy to concentrate on the bottle, and not on the terror that gripped and controlled her body.
Her child was in danger.
No matter what anyone said, no matter what her therapist said, she knew she wasn't crazy. These dreams were too vivid, too real, the memories too strong.
"Mom, help me. Where are you?"
The cap to the bottle popped off, rolling to the floor. With shaking hands, Louise poured out a handful of little white pills, gulping one down dry. The rest she simply let slide out of her hand.
Closing her eyes, she held her trembling hands to her face, trying to regulate her breathing the way she'd been instructed. It took an intense amount of energy to ignore the incessant clamoring of her heart, the panicked, irrational fear.
Each moment seemed like an eternity as she tried to will the terror of her dream away.
Evil.
So much evil surrounding her child.
And she was powerless to help. She was impotent in the face of all that evil and terror.
Carefully, Louise concentrated on drawing air into her aching lungs, slowly, deeply, fighting back the lightheadedness the headache and nightmares left behind, waiting for the panic and terror to slowly subside.
Drenched with sweat, she battled the nausea that always followed the most severe nightmares.
"Mommy. Help me."
Louise blinked, trying to clear her clouded vision and focus on something—anything—other than herself and the feelings of helplessness, of fear that gripped her.
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed convulsively several times. A sense of dread coupled with distaste settled in the pit of her stomach. Whatever was in her stomach didn't plan on being there much longer.
Pushing back the tumbled covers, she stumbled from the bed, praying her legs would hold her up.
Barefoot, she crept into the bathroom, clutching one hand to her mouth, one to her roiling stomach as she leaned over the bowl, unable to stop her body's violent physical protests.
By the time her stomach was emptied, the terror had nearly passed and her heartbeat and breathing were almost back to normal.
Still shaking, she turned on the cold water, cupped a handful to rinse her sour mouth, then grabbed a washcloth to bathe her face.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the reflection staring back at her. Her nightgown was ripped; her short cap of golden brown hair now streaked with gray, was disheveled and her once sparkling brown eyes were ringed by shadows and looked dull and lifeless.
She stared at her reflection, wondering.
Who was she?
Louise Smith was a name she had taken after she'd been released from the institution. When she'd left, she had no memory of her past, no memory of who she had been or what she had done. It was only through the doctors that she'd learned of her painful past.
Shaking her head, Louise rubbed her hands over her face again. She couldn't bear the thought of what the
Louise closed her eyes for a brief moment, and she could actually see the girl as clearly as if she'd been standing in front of her.
She was a small, frail child with a mop of curly red hair and an infectious smile. There was love and adoration radiating from the girl, and something else, a bond. The bond that only grew between mother and child.
The feeling was so strong, the vision so real, Louise shuddered in the darkness again, pressing a hand to her pounding forehead, then to her eyes to try to block out the vision.
The girl was now grown, a young woman, and she was in some kind of danger.
Louise knew it as sure as she knew that she was lying in her own bedroom, in her own tidy little house.
Shuddering in the darkness, Louise blindly reached for the bottle of prescription medicine her therapist had prescribed to help ease the awful headaches, headaches that only came when she had these recurring nightmares.
Fumbling, she tried to snap off the bottle cap. It took all her energy to concentrate on the bottle, and not on the terror that gripped and controlled her body.
Her child was in danger.
No matter what anyone said, no matter what her therapist said, she knew she wasn't crazy. These dreams were too vivid, too real, the memories too strong.
"Mom, help me. Where are you?"
The cap to the bottle popped off, rolling to the floor. With shaking hands, Louise poured out a handful of little white pills, gulping one down dry. The rest she simply let slide out of her hand.
Closing her eyes, she held her trembling hands to her face, trying to regulate her breathing the way she'd been instructed. It took an intense amount of energy to ignore the incessant clamoring of her heart, the panicked, irrational fear.
Each moment seemed like an eternity as she tried to will the terror of her dream away.
Evil.
So much evil surrounding her child.
And she was powerless to help. She was impotent in the face of all that evil and terror.
Carefully, Louise concentrated on drawing air into her aching lungs, slowly, deeply, fighting back the lightheadedness the headache and nightmares left behind, waiting for the panic and terror to slowly subside.
Drenched with sweat, she battled the nausea that always followed the most severe nightmares.
"Mommy. Help me."
Louise blinked, trying to clear her clouded vision and focus on something—anything—other than herself and the feelings of helplessness, of fear that gripped her.
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed convulsively several times. A sense of dread coupled with distaste settled in the pit of her stomach. Whatever was in her stomach didn't plan on being there much longer.
Pushing back the tumbled covers, she stumbled from the bed, praying her legs would hold her up.
Barefoot, she crept into the bathroom, clutching one hand to her mouth, one to her roiling stomach as she leaned over the bowl, unable to stop her body's violent physical protests.
By the time her stomach was emptied, the terror had nearly passed and her heartbeat and breathing were almost back to normal.
Still shaking, she turned on the cold water, cupped a handful to rinse her sour mouth, then grabbed a washcloth to bathe her face.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the reflection staring back at her. Her nightgown was ripped; her short cap of golden brown hair now streaked with gray, was disheveled and her once sparkling brown eyes were ringed by shadows and looked dull and lifeless.
She stared at her reflection, wondering.
Who was she?
Louise Smith was a name she had taken after she'd been released from the institution. When she'd left, she had no memory of her past, no memory of who she had been or what she had done. It was only through the doctors that she'd learned of her painful past.
Shaking her head, Louise rubbed her hands over her face again. She couldn't bear the thought of what the
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