Page 33 of Pocketful of Shame

"Knew what?"

"Everything I needed to know. Everything that was in the journal," I squeezed out, panicking. "He said I knew but that I wasn't ready to remember." Sagging forward, I reached up and pushed my hands through my hair, ignoring the pain in my scalp when my fingers came up against knots. "He kept saying it over and over in the car that night… and then I started getting these terrible flashbacks." Blowing out a shaky breath, I tugged on my hair, shoulders stiffening. "Of the dreams I used to have when I was little." I flicked my eyes to his. "Dreams that felt incrediblyreal."

Reaching over, he peeled my hands from my hair. "The one with the locked door?" There was no reservation in his eyes now. He was completely invested in what I had to say. "And the crying?"

It warmed my heart that he remembered something as miniscule as my recurring childhood dream about the horrible sounds coming from the other side of a locked door. "Yes," I admitted, pushing down any feelings of warmth. "And I don’t know why, but my mind keeps going back to that door."

"Did you ever tell Chris about the dreams?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head. "You're the only person I've ever told."

He thought about that for a moment before asking, "Tell me again."

"But you already know."

"I know," he agreed. "Just humor me."

Confused, I did as he asked. "It always starts out the same," I began. "I'm really little and I wake up because I've wet the bed. It's the middle of the night and I'm thirsty. I'm so thirsty that my throat is raw. I can hear voices coming from the other side of my bedroom door. It's my mama. She's crying. She's screaming and wailing at my daddy. I can hear men shouting. And women – women who aren’t Mama, they're screaming. I throw back the covers and climb out of bed, but the moment my feet touch the floor, it starts moving. I'm swaying and trying to keep my balance in the darkness. And the moon? I can see it, big, bright, and full, but my window is a circle and I know I'm not in my actual bedroom." I expel a shaky breath before continuing, "But wherever I am stillfeelslike home, if that makes sense? Like I know exactly where I'm going when I sneak into the hallway and start walking down this really long corridor. It's never-ending and the closer I get to the end, the further away I feel. Until I hear him."

"Him?"

"The little boy," I squeezed out, cringing at the horrible thought. "He's sobbing. He's crying so hard that I start running towards the sound. It's so dark and my bare feet are cold, my heart is beating at a hundred miles a minute, but I don’t stop until I reach the door at the end of the corridor. It's the biggest door I've ever seen in my life, with a big, brass door handle. When I reach up and turn the handle, it's locked."

Sketch paled, but continued to hang on to every word I said.

"He's right behind the door and I peek through the keyhole, but I can't see anything. I can't see, but I can hear him crying." I shuddered. "He's all alone and there's a crack under the door, small enough for a child to push their fingers through. I drop onto my hands and knees and reach under the door just as five tiny fingers brush against mine. I'm so freaked out that I start sobbing uncontrollably, and then the little boy whispers'Are you–'"

"An angel," Sketch finished for me, still deathly pale.

"Yes." I nodded. "You remember me telling you?"

His frown deepened. "I guess?"

"Yeah, and I have no idea why I can't stop thinking about it," I said with a sigh. "It's like a broken record in my mind, playing over and over again."

"What happens after their hands touch?" he asked then, covering my hand with his almost subconsciously.

"Nothing," I replied, ignoring the electricity shooting through my body from the feel of his hands on mine. "I always wake up."

Sketch's brows furrowed and he shook his head, looking confused. "A boy," he said slowly, staring down at our joined hands. "You're sure it was a little boy behind the door?"

"Positive," I croaked out.

He stared at me, still looking confused.

"Sketch, what is it?"

He shook his head. "Um, it's probably nothing."

Anxiety gnawed at my gut. "Tell me."

"I have the same dream," he admitted, brows pinched together. "But it's slightly different." He grimaced before saying, "In my dream, there's no corridor. It's a room. And there's no little boy trapped on the other side of the door. It's a little girl."

Our eyes locked and several moments passed where neither one of us dared to breathe, let alone speak.

Sketch finally broke the tension. "Nah, it's bullshit." Shaking his head, he released my hand and rubbed his thigh. "Just a dream." He laughed then, shaking his head softly. "We terrorized each other so badly with that shit when we were kids, I'm not surprised we dreamed up the same damn crap.""

"You have the same one?" I squeezed out, heart racing. "You never told me that?"

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