Arcane Awakenings Books One and Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I stared at the little blue pill in the palm of my hand.

Tired of waking coated in sweat, with the bed sheets twisted around my legs, I’d grabbed the last packet of pills out of the top drawer of my bedside table, despairing that the months spent weaning myself off the medication had been for nothing.

The pill, innocuous and yet seductive, promised a dreamless night and a return to existing on autopilot.

My hand shook as I lifted it toward my mouth, the sting of failure making my eyes water. Aunt Joyce had predicted I wouldn’t be able to handle life without medication and would snap under the pressure of the real world. The day I moved out she’d stood in the doorway and watched me pile my bags into the back of the taxi, as usual making no attempt to hide her scorn.

She’d said I wouldn’t last six months without medication.

If I swallowed this pill, I’d be proving her right.

My spine stiffened, and I made a fist.

No.

She was the one who was wrong.

I launched myself off the bed and raced to the toilet. Before I could think twice, I lifted the lid and threw the pill into the bowl. Breathing ragged, I flushed the toilet, and watched the water carry temptation away.

Sweat trickled down my forehead, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand as I returned to my room. I sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, arms wrapped around my stomach as I rocked backward and forward. Gradually my breathing eased, and I lay down, arms at my sides, hands gripping the sheet beneath me. I stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by the lamp on the bedside table.

Eyelids impossibly heavy, given weight by weeks of disturbed nights, they closed, and sleep claimed me.

It felt as if I’d only just fallen asleep when I was transported to the room that had haunted me for as long as I could remember.

I stand in the open doorway as the empty room ripples before filling with furniture. Twin timber beds rest against one wall, covered in matching pink quilts with a colourful collection of stuffed toys on the pillows. White lace billows over the window between the beds and glittering fairies dance on the pink and white curtains hanging open on either side.

On the opposite side of the room a brown rocking horse with a golden mane sits beside a large pink and white toy box. An ornate dollhouse rests on a multi-coloured rug in the centre of the room, just waiting to be played with by little hands.

The room is neat and tidy, everything in its place, but I know that will soon change. My stomach clenches, dread filling my mouth with bile. I struggle to move, to leave the room, but remain frozen in place, helpless to do anything but bear witness as the dream plays out before me.

The room ripples, and now it is no longer neat. Toys are strewn over the floor, the quilts have been thrown off the beds, and the sheets rumpled. A small child sits on one of the beds, legs dangling over the edge. She is beautiful, with dark blonde curls and sleepy indigo eyes, one chubby hand clutching a well-worn teddy to her chest. She appears to be around three years of age.

The little girl is me, a reflection of the child I had once been. I smile at my former self, enjoying this moment of peace even though I know it is not to last. The room ripples once more and I shudder as the dream shifts to nightmare.

The room goes dark and smoke obscures my vision. I wave a hand in front of my face to clear the smoke away, and desperately search for the little girl. She is now standing in the middle of the bed, beseeching me with terror-filled eyes.

A crackling noise from behind makes me spin around and I find myself looking down a long hall filled with smoke, flames l*****g the walls, heat pressing against my face. Mesmerised by the flames, my attention is caught, until a terrified scream has me turning back to my childhood self.

Fire is devouring the fairies on the curtains as the little girl backs away from them in fear. She reaches the end of the bed and looks over her shoulder at me.

‘Help me, Andie, please. I’m scared.’ The little girl stretches a hand toward me. Her mouth doesn’t move, but her words echo in my head.

I want to take her in my arms and pluck her to safety. I take one step inside the room, jumping back when part of the ceiling collapses to the floor in front of me, crushing the dollhouse. I move around it, one hand shielding my eyes when the rug beneath the chunk of ceiling catches fire. Heat blasts me from all sides as the little girl silently cries my name. I reach out to her and she smiles as our fingertips touch. I lean forward, preparing to take the last step so I can scoop her into my arms.

Something grabs me around my waist and pulls me back.

‘No.’ I struggle to break free, striving with all my might to go to the little girl, hoping this time the unseen force will relent.

‘Andie!’ The little girl screams, retreating to the other end of the bed as more of the ceiling caves in between us.

‘Let me go.’ Tears stream down my cheeks. I desperately want to go back, to rescue the little girl. Instead, I am picked up and carried down the hall.

The child’s cries get louder, more insistent, and I cover my ears but am unable to block them out as they are inside my head. Smoke fills my lungs and I choke on it, eyes stinging and chest heaving.

Then darkness takes me.

I bolted upright, coughing, rubbing my abraded throat, an echo of the little girl’s screams ringing in my ears. My body trembled as an acute sense of loss filled me. Shivers racked my body and I grabbed a throw rug off the end of the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders in a vain effort to get warm. A wide yawn made my eyes water but I resisted the urge to lie down. Even if I did manage to go back to sleep, experience taught me the nightmare would return.

I grabbed my mobile phone off the bedside table and checked the time. Three am. I stared at the wall opposite my bed, still seeing the little girl’s face, my face. I rubbed my eyes, wiping away tears, wishing I knew why this dream continued to haunt me.

The first time had been the night after my parents died in a car accident. All I had were vague memories of waking in the middle of the night, in a strange room, screaming. I’d called for my mum, only to be told she was gone and Joyce, Uncle Bill’s new wife, was now my mother. A woman I had never met stood beside the bed, frowning at me. Then she walked out of the room without saying another word, leaving it to my older brother Daniel to comfort me.

The next morning, she and Uncle Bill took me to see a psychiatrist, who explained away my nightmare as a reaction to the changes in my environment and the trauma of losing my parents. It would go away once I’d settled in at my new home, the shrink said. But the dreams didn’t go away, they got worse, and five shrinks later Aunt Joyce found one who said sedatives were the answer.

Every night, for the next fifteen years, my aunt would appear with a glass of water in one gloved hand and my dose in the other. She’d pry my mouth open and toss the pill into the back of my throat. Then she’d hold my mouth shut, grab hold of my hair and wrench my head back until I swallowed. Only then would I be allowed to take a sip of water. The nightly ritual never changed, and I learned early on that my tears and childish pleas were useless.

The dosage increased year by year and by the time I turned thirteen it had reached a level where it became impossible for me to shake off the effects the next day. Thoughts dull, unable to fully engage with the people around me, I muddled my way through high school, hiding out in the library during breaks.

Daniel was my only friend, my confidante, my lifeline. I would have gone crazy for real if he wasn’t there to support me. Then he finished his apprenticeship as an electrician and moved out. Though he regularly came to visit, it was not the same. I was essentially alone, imprisoned in a body that did not feel as if it belonged to me, with Aunt Joyce hovering in the background ready to shove even more pills down my throat.

When I turned eighteen, legally an adult, I’d packed my bags and caught a taxi to Daniel’s flat. His flatmate had found living away from home too expensive and returned to his parents a month earlier, leaving Daniel to cover the full cost of the rent. Most brothers wouldn’t be keen on having their little sister moving in, but Daniel knew how much I hated living at Bill and Joyce’s without him, and so far, it seemed to be working out.

I was halfway through my first year at Easton University, studying nursing while working part-time at a local nursing home. My income, along with the subsidy I received from the government, covered my share of the rent and kept me fed. There wasn’t much left in the bank once the bills had been paid each week, but I was happy to forgo new clothes or nights out to escape my aunt’s religious adherence to perfection.

I was the antithesis of perfection.

Aunt Joyce was not able to hide her relief when I announced I was leaving home, a far cry from the reaction Daniel had received a year earlier. But then, he’d never caused her sleepless nights or needed expensive medical treatment. Though it was never said aloud, I knew she and Uncle Bill regretted their decision to adopt me formally. If they weren’t focused on keeping up the appearance of the perfect family, I’m sure they would have sent me away and just kept Daniel.

I sighed, shaking my head to banish such gloomy thoughts, and reached for the book on my bedside table. I was keen to lose myself in someone else’s life for a while. I’d just finished the first chapter when a bang set my heart racing.

I let the book fall to the bed and tossed the throw rug aside as I got to my feet.

‘Daniel, is that you?’ I wrenched open my bedroom door and stepped out into the hall as another bang, followed by the sound of breaking glass, came from the kitchen. I sped down the hall and skidded to a stop when I saw Daniel standing in front of the sink. His left hand was held up in front of him, blood pooling in the centre of his palm.

‘Oh my God, what happened?’ I made my way to his side, skirting the broken glass on the floor.

He blinked at me, body swaying, eyes bloodshot.

I frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’ This was not like Daniel. He was usually so serious; he hardly ever had more than two beers.

‘I dropped a glass,’ he said, slurring his words as he held his palm up for me to inspect.

‘I see that.’ I took his hand and ran it under the cold tap to rinse off the blood. A jagged piece of glass was embedded in his palm and I prised it free, pleased to see it left only a small cut. I grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it around his hand, then led him around the broken glass and over to the small dining table tucked into a corner of the kitchen.

‘I tried to clean it up,’ he said, pointing to the dustpan and brush he had pulled out of the cupboard under the sink.

‘It’s okay, I’ll take care of it.’ I made him sit down and manoeuvred him around until his uninjured hand rested on top of his injured one. ‘But first I need to take care of you. Hold that while I get the first aid kit.’

He gave me a bleary smile and nodded, slumping down in the chair until his chin was sitting on his chest.

I got the first aid kit from the bathroom and ran back to the kitchen.

Daniel was no longer sitting at the table. I searched through the flat and found him lying face down on his bed, snoring softly, left arm trailing over the side. He didn’t move as I undid the tea towel and wiped the puncture wound with an antiseptic cloth. Once the area was dry, I placed a dressing over it and smoothed it in place.

He was so out of it he didn’t make a sound as I placed his arm back on the bed. Then I packed up the first aid kit and stashed it away in the bathroom cupboard. Back in the kitchen, I grabbed the dustpan and brush and made quick work of the mess he’d made.

Daniel’s behaviour was so out of character; something had to be seriously wrong. My stomach clenched at the thought.

He was all I had.

I couldn’t lose him.