HT100 FlashFic Challenge #18: Nightmare on Oz Street II -- "Visitor"
Title: Visitor
Prompt: 18 - Nightmare on Oz Street II
Timeframe: Season Six
Word Count: 1255
Visitor
by Severina
Chris sleeps lightly, an occupational hazard for a man in his business. Whether it’s on the streets, on the road, or in prison, it doesn’t matter -- he knows you always need to have one eye open, one foot on the ground, an ear forever cocked and listening for the slightest whisper.
He’s not sure what wakes him this night. Death Row is silent: the hack probably sleeping in his chair, Hoyt definitely sleeping in his cell. Chris lays quietly in the darkness -- almost true darkness here, not the half-light of Em City, of glassed-in pods and Toby, possibly also awake now, splashing cold water onto his face and shaking away the last remnants of a nightmare that Chris can no longer help soothe away.
The thought of Toby so close yet so unattainable makes his gut ache, his hands unconsciously curl up into fists. He forces himself to breathe, lets the air ease out through his nose and waits until he feels his shoulders relax before he shifts onto his side on the uncomfortable mattress.
Someone is standing in the corner of his cell.
Chris freezes, stares into the gloom and slowly slides his arm over the side of the bed, his fingers groping for the bedspring shank he’s spent hours sharpening over the course of several long and sleepless nights. His fingertips barely stroke the tip of the blade and then it’s flipped effortlessly into his palm, held loosely in his sure grip.
“You’re not goin’ to need that, sugar.”
Chris blinks. “Bellinger?”
“In the flesh, sweetie.” She steps silently away from the corner, the tread of her sneakered feet soundless on the thick concrete floor, until the faint light from one of the windows set high in the wall strikes her face. She cocks her head, and the thick red welt on her neck flares prominently. “Well,” she amends, “so to speak.”
Chris guardedly swings his legs over the side of the bed, moving painstakingly slowly. He palms the shank, slips the ridged handle into his fingers, cups the jagged edge loosely by his palm. Feels emboldened by the curves of the blade, the cold press of steel in his grasp.
“What are you doing here?”
Shirley raises a brow. “You’re not frightened,” she says.
“Why should I be?” Chris answers. The blanket tangles in his legs and he kicks it away smoothly, gives himself the ability to move quickly if he has to. “I live with ghosts every day. I’m used to it.”
Shirley smiles. “I’m not like those poor fellas that got caught on the sinful side of that sweet smile of yours,” she says. “I’m--”
“Free.”
“Yes!” Shirley laughs delightedly. “With some restrictions, of course. I’m bound by these prison walls, regrettably. But no one can call me into bein’. Nobody can force me to do somethin’ I don’t want to do.” She sighs dreamily. “It’s nice being free.”
“You never answered my question.”
“I didn’t?” Shirley blinks. “What question was that, darlin’? Put down that silly shank and ask me again.”
Chris glances at the weapon in his hand; even knowing it’s useless against Bellinger -- probably useless, anyway -- he’s loathe to give it up. He compromises by stretching out his arm, placing the shank within arms reach on the pillow. He grins, shows his teeth, but the smile doesn‘t reach his eyes. “Happy now?”
“Much obliged, kind sir,” Shirley says. She frowns at the shank, waves at it with one delicate hand. “Such dirty things. Do you know how much pain you‘ve caused with such awful dirty things?”
Chris huffs out a laugh. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you kill your own daughter?”
“Now, there’s no need to mention that,” Shirley scolds. “I did what I had to do.”
Chris remembers Shemin’s pleading eyes as he fell squirming under the blade, the shiver down his spine at the sharp snap of Mondo’s neck. He raises his chin. “So did I.”
“Let‘s table the subject for now. Lord knows we‘ll have enough nights to discuss it until we‘re both blue in the face,” Shirley says with a sigh. “Your question, sweetie?”
“What,” Chris bites out, “are you doing here?”
“Oh, that.” Shirley takes a step closer, ”You were whimpering in your sleep.”
“You’re lying,” Chris says instantly.
“I’m a ghost, sugar. Why on earth would I lie?”
Chris lifts a shoulder, narrows his eyes. “You’re evil.”
Shirley’s laughter sounds full and lush in the silence of the cellblock. “That’s rich,” she says, “comin’ from you.”
“I thought we were going to ‘table that subject’?” Chris says tightly.
Shirley inclines her head. “Indeed we were. It was most discourteous of me to raise the issue again. Please forgive me.” When Chris says nothing, merely regards her with a suspicious glare, she sighs. “I did say please.”
Chris shakes his head. “Sure.”
“Now where were we?” Shirley asks. “Ah yes. You were whimpering in your sleep.”
“I wasn’t--”
“You were dreaming,” Shirley says firmly. “My daughter used to have bad dreams like that. Of course, most times she was possessed of the devil and servin’ as his foul handmaiden here on earth. But sometimes she was just a sweet little girl afraid of the monsters under the bed.”
“There are no monsters.”
“Sure there are,” Shirley counters. “We’re surrounded by them right here, in Oz, every minute of every day. You know that better than most, don’t you?”
Chris says nothing.
“Do you know what I’d do when my precious little baby woke up whimperin’ in the night? I’d brush my fingertips over her forehead--”
Chris freezes when she’s moves toward him, his entire body taut with tension, but Shirley merely bends and runs her fingers lightly over his forehead. Her touch is warm, not at all what he expects, and the gentle caress smoothes the furrows from his brow, eases the stiffness from his body.
“--and tell her that everything was goin’ to be right as rain in the morning.”
Chris swallows. “Is everything going to be right as rain, Shirley?”
Shirley moves away, smoothes her prison-issue dress primly over her thighs. “I don’t know. Things are… all a-flutter.”
Chris clenches his fists. He can handle anything they throw at him in this place, but not knowing the temperature of the rest of the prison, of Toby, is enough to churn his gut, to keep him awake at night. Or to send him shapeless, formless dreams that fade instantly upon waking but leave him restless and on edge, eager to strike out.
He licks his lips. “Can you go anywhere in the prison?”
“I can indeed.”
Chris’s mouth is suddenly dry, a fountain of his own blood ringing loudly in his ears. “Can you…” he tries. “Do you--”
“He’s fine,” Shirley reassures him. “He’s in Unit J now, safe from the postman and his friends. And workin’ on your appeal every chance that he gets.”
Chris leans back on the bed and breathes a little easier.
“And on that note, I’d best be leaving you,” Shirley says. “You need your rest, darlin’. “
“I take it you’ll be back,” Chris says dryly.
“Of course! What girl wouldn’t enjoy the company of a handsome gentleman on occasion, even if she is a ghost?”
“Handsome, huh?”
Shirley smiles. “But before I go, let me give you one word of advice,” she says. A hand flutters faintly at her neck. “Whatever you do, don’t choose hangin’ as your method of execution. It’s not nearly as poetic as one would think.”
.
Prompt: 18 - Nightmare on Oz Street II
Timeframe: Season Six
Word Count: 1255
Visitor
by Severina
Chris sleeps lightly, an occupational hazard for a man in his business. Whether it’s on the streets, on the road, or in prison, it doesn’t matter -- he knows you always need to have one eye open, one foot on the ground, an ear forever cocked and listening for the slightest whisper.
He’s not sure what wakes him this night. Death Row is silent: the hack probably sleeping in his chair, Hoyt definitely sleeping in his cell. Chris lays quietly in the darkness -- almost true darkness here, not the half-light of Em City, of glassed-in pods and Toby, possibly also awake now, splashing cold water onto his face and shaking away the last remnants of a nightmare that Chris can no longer help soothe away.
The thought of Toby so close yet so unattainable makes his gut ache, his hands unconsciously curl up into fists. He forces himself to breathe, lets the air ease out through his nose and waits until he feels his shoulders relax before he shifts onto his side on the uncomfortable mattress.
Someone is standing in the corner of his cell.
Chris freezes, stares into the gloom and slowly slides his arm over the side of the bed, his fingers groping for the bedspring shank he’s spent hours sharpening over the course of several long and sleepless nights. His fingertips barely stroke the tip of the blade and then it’s flipped effortlessly into his palm, held loosely in his sure grip.
“You’re not goin’ to need that, sugar.”
Chris blinks. “Bellinger?”
“In the flesh, sweetie.” She steps silently away from the corner, the tread of her sneakered feet soundless on the thick concrete floor, until the faint light from one of the windows set high in the wall strikes her face. She cocks her head, and the thick red welt on her neck flares prominently. “Well,” she amends, “so to speak.”
Chris guardedly swings his legs over the side of the bed, moving painstakingly slowly. He palms the shank, slips the ridged handle into his fingers, cups the jagged edge loosely by his palm. Feels emboldened by the curves of the blade, the cold press of steel in his grasp.
“What are you doing here?”
Shirley raises a brow. “You’re not frightened,” she says.
“Why should I be?” Chris answers. The blanket tangles in his legs and he kicks it away smoothly, gives himself the ability to move quickly if he has to. “I live with ghosts every day. I’m used to it.”
Shirley smiles. “I’m not like those poor fellas that got caught on the sinful side of that sweet smile of yours,” she says. “I’m--”
“Free.”
“Yes!” Shirley laughs delightedly. “With some restrictions, of course. I’m bound by these prison walls, regrettably. But no one can call me into bein’. Nobody can force me to do somethin’ I don’t want to do.” She sighs dreamily. “It’s nice being free.”
“You never answered my question.”
“I didn’t?” Shirley blinks. “What question was that, darlin’? Put down that silly shank and ask me again.”
Chris glances at the weapon in his hand; even knowing it’s useless against Bellinger -- probably useless, anyway -- he’s loathe to give it up. He compromises by stretching out his arm, placing the shank within arms reach on the pillow. He grins, shows his teeth, but the smile doesn‘t reach his eyes. “Happy now?”
“Much obliged, kind sir,” Shirley says. She frowns at the shank, waves at it with one delicate hand. “Such dirty things. Do you know how much pain you‘ve caused with such awful dirty things?”
Chris huffs out a laugh. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you kill your own daughter?”
“Now, there’s no need to mention that,” Shirley scolds. “I did what I had to do.”
Chris remembers Shemin’s pleading eyes as he fell squirming under the blade, the shiver down his spine at the sharp snap of Mondo’s neck. He raises his chin. “So did I.”
“Let‘s table the subject for now. Lord knows we‘ll have enough nights to discuss it until we‘re both blue in the face,” Shirley says with a sigh. “Your question, sweetie?”
“What,” Chris bites out, “are you doing here?”
“Oh, that.” Shirley takes a step closer, ”You were whimpering in your sleep.”
“You’re lying,” Chris says instantly.
“I’m a ghost, sugar. Why on earth would I lie?”
Chris lifts a shoulder, narrows his eyes. “You’re evil.”
Shirley’s laughter sounds full and lush in the silence of the cellblock. “That’s rich,” she says, “comin’ from you.”
“I thought we were going to ‘table that subject’?” Chris says tightly.
Shirley inclines her head. “Indeed we were. It was most discourteous of me to raise the issue again. Please forgive me.” When Chris says nothing, merely regards her with a suspicious glare, she sighs. “I did say please.”
Chris shakes his head. “Sure.”
“Now where were we?” Shirley asks. “Ah yes. You were whimpering in your sleep.”
“I wasn’t--”
“You were dreaming,” Shirley says firmly. “My daughter used to have bad dreams like that. Of course, most times she was possessed of the devil and servin’ as his foul handmaiden here on earth. But sometimes she was just a sweet little girl afraid of the monsters under the bed.”
“There are no monsters.”
“Sure there are,” Shirley counters. “We’re surrounded by them right here, in Oz, every minute of every day. You know that better than most, don’t you?”
Chris says nothing.
“Do you know what I’d do when my precious little baby woke up whimperin’ in the night? I’d brush my fingertips over her forehead--”
Chris freezes when she’s moves toward him, his entire body taut with tension, but Shirley merely bends and runs her fingers lightly over his forehead. Her touch is warm, not at all what he expects, and the gentle caress smoothes the furrows from his brow, eases the stiffness from his body.
“--and tell her that everything was goin’ to be right as rain in the morning.”
Chris swallows. “Is everything going to be right as rain, Shirley?”
Shirley moves away, smoothes her prison-issue dress primly over her thighs. “I don’t know. Things are… all a-flutter.”
Chris clenches his fists. He can handle anything they throw at him in this place, but not knowing the temperature of the rest of the prison, of Toby, is enough to churn his gut, to keep him awake at night. Or to send him shapeless, formless dreams that fade instantly upon waking but leave him restless and on edge, eager to strike out.
He licks his lips. “Can you go anywhere in the prison?”
“I can indeed.”
Chris’s mouth is suddenly dry, a fountain of his own blood ringing loudly in his ears. “Can you…” he tries. “Do you--”
“He’s fine,” Shirley reassures him. “He’s in Unit J now, safe from the postman and his friends. And workin’ on your appeal every chance that he gets.”
Chris leans back on the bed and breathes a little easier.
“And on that note, I’d best be leaving you,” Shirley says. “You need your rest, darlin’. “
“I take it you’ll be back,” Chris says dryly.
“Of course! What girl wouldn’t enjoy the company of a handsome gentleman on occasion, even if she is a ghost?”
“Handsome, huh?”
Shirley smiles. “But before I go, let me give you one word of advice,” she says. A hand flutters faintly at her neck. “Whatever you do, don’t choose hangin’ as your method of execution. It’s not nearly as poetic as one would think.”
.