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Trish is in a wide, dark room in the basement of a church, where pillars stretch into nothingness, repeating on themselves like a room of mirrors. Only tall candelabras break the dark.
She’s back here because her escape was a glorious rebellion against fate, and the universe simply will not have it. She was meant to die here, so she does, over and over, every night. Such is her curse. Her own personal purgatory.
There is something in the darkness beyond her sight that smells like cigarettes and expensive cologne. Though she cannot see it, she knows it’s stalking her.
She's found an almost-safety in the repetition of it all, the dark, the pillars, the footsteps. There is a script in play here and Trish knows every word. But not today, it seems. Today is different.
She bites back a shriek when she sees another figure in the dark. The figure yelps and it echoes a million times over. Trish grabs one of the candles from its holder nearby and thrusts it to the figure’s face and to her relief, they are less frightening in the light. Most things are.
It’s a boy, a little older than her with bright pink hair that doesn’t exactly match her own and freckles that dust his cheeks like cinnamon sugar. He smells like baked apples and sea salt. He might be the same height as her, but as she tries to stretch herself out to make herself seem taller, bigger, scarier, the boy only shrinks in on himself. Folds himself up as small as he can.
He looks at her with wide, panicked eyes, a look she’s seen before, but doesn’t know where. Perhaps in the mirror.
“Do I... “ she starts, stepping closer. He skitters back. The candle is gone now and she can barely see his face. “Do I know you?”
“You should go.” says the boy. “You should really, really go.” The sweetness in his voice is rotted by fear.
“Are you stuck here too?” Trish asks.
“You’re not listening.” the boy says. His pupils are pinpricks. “You have to leave.”
“I can’t.” says Trish.
The boy surges forward, grabbing her by the shoulders.
“Please.” he begs, drowning out her gasp. “You don’t know what it’s like to not be able to leave.”
Trish doesn’t know this part of the dream. Dread wells up in her as she fights against his tightening grip. He forces her backward as he steps forward, plunging himself into the darkness of a pillar as his stride lengthens. He seems to stand up to his full height, bones cracking up his spine as he does. His braided hair comes undone in a mess of a mane and the scent of cologne and smoke fills her throat with acid. She will ever be able to scrub it off her skin.
The smallest fraction of his face catches the candlelight and Trish recognizes the eyes now. Now she knows the script, line by horrible line.
“You have my eyes, girl.” says her father, towering over her. “To see your face is to see my own.” His voice is rough and low, hissing through his teeth. Did this voice ever sing her lullabies? Did these hands ever cradle her close? Did she do something wrong?
He dragged her by the wrist, her bones creaking under his grip. The pain brings her to her knees. Though she grits her teeth so hard she’s sure they'll shatter, she knows she could finish his line for him.
“And that won’t do.”
She knows beyond doubt her screams will be swallowed up, smothered by hundreds of feet of stone and darkness and the singing of hymns on the floors above.
But she screams anyway.
She always does.