Chapter Text
As a child, Sloan had vivid dreams, but none had felt as real as the one she had just awoken from.
The twenty two year old sits up quickly in her twin sized bed. Her legs are tangled in her black sheets and a pool of sweat forms between her olive skin and the memory foam beneath her.
She had never understood why her dreams were always so vivid, so hyper realistic that every single event that unfolded, Sloan had felt.
From the stab of the silver sword when she was fourteen, the mob boss and shotgun incident at twelve, the drowning in the Pacific Ocean at eight. Each brush with death had traumatized her. Had shaken her to her core and left her sleepless with bags beneath her icy blue eyes, and a fatigue that was ever-consuming.
From across the room, her roommate Evelyn snores loudly. Her mouth was agape, and her hair was a mess.
Sloan throws back her sheets and slides out of her bed, her feet make contact with the cold tile as she pads quietly to her wooden wardrobe. She reaches in and pulls out her bathroom flip flops, made of cheap plastic; she had owned the pink bathroom shoes since she was sophomore, and had tried to keep them in good condition. As the first year of her master’s program was coming to an end, she knew she had to replace them sooner rather than later. Just like everything else she owned. Though, there wasn’t much time in her hectic schedule to work more hours to afford upgrading luxuries like her shattered iPhone or her eight year old laptop that couldn’t hold a charge.
Sloan quietly walks out of her room, down the dimly lit hallway, arriving at the shared bathroom. The lights automatically flicker on as she stumbles through the door and into a stall, sitting and locking the door behind her.
Tonight’s dream was… interesting, to say the least.
She was in some fantasy kingdom, similar to one she visited in dreams as a child, except she had been alone, no other inhabitants circulated her dream kingdom. Smoke clouds billowed and the smell of burnt flesh lingered, even after she had opened her eyes.
Her therapist always told her that these dreams came from having a hyperactive imagination. That she continued to create these scenarios in her dreams because she wasn’t pulling from her “creative well” enough.
She had agreed; especially given that most of these dreams occurred based on content she was consuming. From high-fantasy novels, to old mobster movies, Sloan’s dreams always were somehow related to something that inspired her in some way. But tonight’s dream had felt like no dream, it had felt like she was really there, in the middle of a kingdom collapsing.
She heard the dying breaths of those around her, the gurgling of blood as it pooled in the back of dry throats.
Tears prick in the corners of her eyes as the exhaustion sets in. An exhaustion that has her trapped in a never-ending cycle of being absolutely drained of anything and everything. Like a never-ending black hole slowly sucking every ounce of life out of her until nothing was left but an empty shell.
Sloan returns quietly to the dorm room. She closes the heavy, dark wood door behind her, to quiet the squeal of its hinge. The last thing she needed in this already shitty moment was to wake up Evelyn in the middle of the night. Her roommate valued sleep as though it was a diamond necklace. If she didn’t get a full eight hours, then she was very unhappy to say the least.
Sloan slides into the rocking desk chair and pulls out her leather, passport sized journal, flipping it open to the page she left off on. Scribbles of her last vivid dream starred back at her. It was a face, one with strong cheekbones that could and squinting eyes. She had never seen this person before, to her knowledge, but he was a gorgeous man.
Sloan had to assume that he was just a figment of her imagination; a face she had created, based on other people she had seen in the world.
She grabs her black ballpoint pen and immediately begins to outline what she saw in her dream.
The fallen down, brick and stone at the base, twisted ivy burnt to a wirey crisp, with smoke billowing from the base, deep within the broken palace.
“What are you doing, S?” Evelyn yawns from her bed, sitting up. Sloan turns quickly, startled.
“I had another dream.”
Evelyn throws back her covers and turns on her bedside lamp. She tiredly rubs her eyes, legs swinging over the side of her lofted twin sized bed.
“What was it this time?” Evelyn had known about Sloan’s vivid dreams. The two girls had lived together through all of undergrad, and continued to live with each other as they entered their graduate program. Evelyn had always understood that Sloan’s dreams had affected her roommate in a negative manner. As a psychology major, she always tried to give Sloan some kind of friendly advice, but it usually backfired with Sloan having some kind of mental breakdown in response. Evelyn had stopped trying at some point, only supporting her roommate emotionally.
“It was some fantasy kingdom burning to the ground. There were bodies and people taking their final breaths and-
Evelyn cuts her off Sloan, “It’s probably just a response to all the fantasy you’ve been reading for your Monsters and Myths class. Didn’t you have to watch Lord of the Rings the other day as an assignment?”
Sloan knew her roommate was right, but there was a feeling in this pit of her stomach that told her otherwise.
“It just felt so… vivid, Ev.” Sloan frowned at her roommate, closing the journal, “Like I was actually there. I could feel the heat of the fires, I could taste the smoke and smell the burning flesh. It wasn’t just a dream.”
“But it was, Sloan. It was just a dream. You have a hyperactive imagination. I know that.”
Sloan let out a deep, worrisome sigh. One that told her she was nearing her breaking point. If this continued, she was going to have to be admitted.
“Maybe you need to meet with your therapist again in the morning?”
Dr. Sara Peterson had been Sloan’s therapist since she was twelve. After the drowning dream, her parents had feared the worst and set her up with a therapist who would help Sloan break down these dreams she had been having and put them in a modern context.
“Come here, S.”
Sloan gets up and sits on the edge of Evelyn’s bed. Her roommate wraps her arms tightly around her, Evelyn’s blonde hair falls forward into her face and her pale skin was cold against Sloan’s. Like ice to fire.
“I’m here for you. Always.”
And the calming words were enough to bring Sloan back to reality.
Sloan awoke to the sound of Evelyn chatting on the phone rather loudly. She sits up slowly, rubbing her exhausted eyes.
“She just woke up. I’ll have her call you.” Evelyn hangs up quickly, pocketing her phone. Sloan knew exactly who her roommate had been talking to without asking out loud.
Silas.
Silas was Sloan’s older brother. A twenty-seven year old finance guy, who on the outside, looked as though he belonged in a fraternity.
But the Silas that Sloan knew was deep and poetic. He had filled journals and journals of poems and short stories that were as vivid as the dreams that his little sister had.
Evelyn also had an on and off relationship with Silas, much to Sloan’s dismay. Though, it bothered her significantly less than it once did.
“I’ll call him after I stop in at Peterson’s.” Sloan grumbled as she walked over to her wardrobe and pulled out a comfortable outfit. Something baggy.
An oversized cable-knit sweater and jeans that weren’t too tight along the curves of her body.
Sloan dressed quickly, running a comb through her hair before pulling it into a quick ponytail. She pocketed her phone and her wallet and left quickly.
The autumn air of New York City was crisp, but a twinge of the summer humidity lingered. The sky was filled with grey clouds. Sloan weaves in and out of the crowded sidewalks, moving like a ghost.
After a ten minute walk, Sloan arrived at Peterson's townhouse. For the last three years, Peterson had been operating a private practice out of her home. The door swings open and standing there is a four foot eleven woman with graying blonde hair foot eleven woman with blonde hair, graying at the roots, sure. At the sight of Sloan, her eyes lift and a small smile forms.
“Sloan!” She wraps her arms around Sloan, “What are you doing here, hun?”
“I’m having the dreams again.”
Dr. Peterson’s face falls. She’s been a part of Sloan’s life for over a decade. She knows that when an especially vivid dream occurs, it throws Sloan into a tailspin, usually causing her to crash and burn like an F1 car accident.
“Come inside, hun. I’ll put on a pot of tea.”
Sloan turned back and looked at the city once more and in this moment, she noticed something.
The tower in the distance had an eerie resemblance to the tower in her dream.
While she didn't know what that meant, it couldn't be anything good.