Shane (Damage Control 4)

This ain’t right. Ain’t happening now. Happened years ago. I was… I was at work.

Fumbling around me, I find icy water.

Not good. The bathroom tiles ret

urn, grimy white and splattered with blood and other fluids. The hands in my hair clench, and I grit my teeth. Pain is eating me up from the inside, burning like fire.

Cassie said… she said I’ll be okay. Need an anchor. She’ll give me one. She’ll help me. I picture her wide eyes, her soft lips pressed to mine, and the prison wavers around me. I put my hands on myself and encounter clothes, a thick jacket.

Not naked. Not in the prison.

Get up. Get up, Shane.

With a groan, I stagger to my feet, arms windmilling. My vision swims. The prison still surrounds me, but a corridor opens in front of me, and shadows flit around the corners. Seth is yelling my name, yelling for the guard, and I know I should hide. Hide before Christoph and Marco return for me.

Move.

I start walking, stumbling down the corridor. The tiled floor is rippling, the walls pulsing. I squint, trying to see ahead, then spin around when a crash sounds behind me.

Hell. More shadows, more men.

I’m losing grasp. This… this isn’t over, it’s happening right fucking now, and I can’t escape. A scarred face, the snick of a match lighting a cigarette, and more pain. More fucking pain, and I can’t take anymore.

Not when they come for me again. I fight them, push them off.

“No.” I’m gasping for breath, my heart a sledgehammer to my ribs. “Please.”

“Shane,” she says, then louder, “no, let him go. He won’t hurt me.”

Released, I stumble backward, slip and catch my balance in the last second. My hair hangs in my face, wet and heavy. I ache all over. The prison is there, and isn’t. Through the familiar walls, I see a group of men. I see snow on the ground and on the piles of bricks and machinery, painted yellow by the strong spotlights.

I take a step back.

I stop.

“You’re safe,” she says. “Shane. You’ll be okay. You called me, remember? To come pick you up. Take you home.”

Fear is a vise around my chest—but I know her. She doesn’t belong in any nightmare. “Cass?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s me.” She breaks off the small group of men, her hair spilling gold on the shoulders of her dark coat. “I’ve come to take you home.”

Home.

Cassie.

Not the prison. I’m safe. It’s safe.

I bend over, struggling to catch my breath, and something falls from my hand. A crumpled little box.

She retrieves it, frowns. Opens it. Inside is a wad of something. “Cinnamon gum?” she asks, and I groan.

What the fuck’s happening?

She lets it drop, comes to me. Hesitates, then puts a hand on my arm. “Shall we go home?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Home.”

***