[Gasping for the breath I don't need, I tried to look up at the face of my killer. I stared in horror as I saw nothing, but charred fragments of skin hanging off of bones. There were no eyes, no sockets to place them in; no eyebrows to give the man any features. The thing just had a thin line for an opening—his mouth. No lips. If closed, one wouldn't even think it existed.
'WAKE UP!' I shouted at my own subconsciousness. If I didn't wake up in the next few seconds, I would probably lose my mind.
"Did you have fun hiding?" I could just stare at the faceless figure. It was a growl of anger he let out when I didn't answer. "I'm tired of following you around. This is it. No one can save you, anymore," he said. "Any last wishes?" he deadpanned. Of course, I wasn't given a chance to answer. "Time's up, kitten. Now, you die." I saw his hands jerk against the trigger. I heard the sound of the thing go off. I felt the cold, hard material against my skin for the fraction of a split second. I felt the gut-wrenching pain as the bullet locked itself in place. I could smell the faint smell of burning skin from the firearm being held to close to the juncture of my eyebrows. Yet, I wasn't dead. I realized in a jolt that it was merely a dream; a painful one, but a dream. I was living the dream of a horrible death.
I couldn't even remember my mission at that moment.
My mission? What mission?
I couldn't remember.
All I could think of was Sean, the black car, and impending death.
I felt the pain after the deafening sound of twelve more bullets leaving the gun.
I welcomed death.]
.
The address to the private shooting range was sitting in my inbox when I woke up. I'd woken up altogether too early. I wondered how little I'd slept.
I had been drenched and in dire need of a shower. As the cold water rushed over me, I tried to remember the dream. Most of it was lost. It was all shock and terror and no real memories. I knew a bit about dreams. They could be three things; a manifestation of our subconscious, a long forgotten memory or a prediction of the future. I had ruled out the second option before I'd even thought about it, but then there was the last one. I never really did have dreams that told me the consequences—the future. I'd believed that I lived in the moment: one day at a time.
The first option gave me comfort. I knew I'd been thinking of the black car that tailed me and the fear that someone had messed with my car. But how had Sean come into the scene? Was it because I'd given him a lift a couple of times?
Maybe.
As the time passed in the shower, I was determined to hold on to the memory of the dream, but with each drop of water that ran down my skin, the memories, too, ran in different directions; ran off until I just remembered the fear I'd felt and the blurred image of a faceless man holding the gun at my head.
It didn't matter anymore, I decided by the end of the shower.
I just stopped thinking about it and got down to work. I needed to get someone to check my car out and reach the shooting range in a few hours.
.
Standing in front of my car—the same one that induced that wretched dream, made me nervous. I could almost hear the ticking of a bomb, but I ensured myself that no one would be stupid enough to plant a bomb that would be easy to find.
As the mechanic checked over my car, he furrowed his brow and poked around a little longer than I would've liked and in the end with a sigh came back up to face me.
"Your car is in perfect condition." His smile didn't falter as I asked him to take another look. "There's no need. I realize that you were a bit worried, but you have a beautiful car. I think it was just some kids who wanted to check it out."
It made sense, but I was adamant that it wasn't just that. I was suspicious by nature and this was definitely suspicious. Maybe I could get my hands on the CCTV footage of the alley. I think they had a camera in the area. It was then that I remembered a fragment of my dream (so much for forgetting about it).
"Do me a favor, check the brakes again." He nodded, understanding my worries.
Proving that my worries were unnecessary, the brakes seemed to work just fine when the mechanic checked it.
I paid the man and with a final prayer to whatever god was up there. I entered the car and drove towards my destination—the shooting range.
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