FicWad

By the time Patrick landed, somehow easily and painlessly, in Donnie’s outstretched arms, Mr Sandman was already waiting alongside him, but it simply wasn’t possible. Mr Sandman had followed him into the void, rather than preceding him, and yet here he was, standing, arms folded, waiting. On reflection, despite the sheer impossibility of the situation, it was almost worth ignoring in favour of exploring his new-found suspicions over Mr Sandman’s motives.

Before he had even regained his composure from the long fall, Donnie had tipped him onto unsteady feet and was holding his arms firmly. Patrick stood, frowning deeply; furious by what was happening, yet not even bothering to try to struggle free. What was the point? Where could he go? The surroundings were both eerie and alarming. It was very dark. Dark and if he were honest, quite scary. Perhaps it was just the unfamiliarity that was scary or maybe there really was something to be truly afraid of?

He found himself standing on a well worn path, ahead and to the right a dense forest, with tall trees reaching as high as he could see and a tangled mass of branches and leaves preventing a view more than a few hundred feet beyond the path in any direction. Occasionally, he was convinced he could see one or more pairs of eyes staring at him from out of the darkness. The forest floor was almost completely obscured by a thick mat of roots, ferns and shrubs. From deep within the forest, strange noises, none of which he wanted to become acquainted with, warned him to keep his distance.

To his left stood a cemetery, grim and bleak with unattended graves and broken or tilting headstones. A permanently rolling mist shimmered over the graves and marble statues, yet despite its motion, it never actually seemed to spread beyond the cemetery gates. Another pair of eyes, this time clearly belonging to an owl, peered at him from high in a crooked leafless tree.

Finally, Patrick turned his attention to Mr Sandman, remarkably, now dressed in his own clothes and smiling at him. It wasn’t an unpleasant smile, nor arrogant or condescending, but Patrick didn’t like it. He knew already that he had been lied to, but by how much? And had Dr Benzedrine also lied to him?

“Welcome to The Dream World!” Sandman announced proudly. “Donnie, you can let him go,” he added quietly. “I think Patrick understands that there’s nowhere for him to go.”

As Donnie released his arms without a word, Patrick responded with an indignant shake, as if marking the end of successfully struggling free. Without even blinking, he continued to glare angrily, quietly fuming at Mr Sandman’s treatment of him, of Pete, of them all.

“So,” Mr Sandman continued. “What do you think?”
“How much of it was a lie?” Patrick demanded, ignoring Sandman’s question.
“How much do you think?” Sandman grinned impishly.
Patrick frowned deeply at the response. “You think it’s funny to play with people’s lives? Which one of you is telling the truth?”
“What makes you think either of us are? What makes you think we’re lying?” Sandman growled, yet at the same time clearly enjoying seeing Patrick grow increasingly incensed.
“You can’t both be telling the truth,” Patrick replied flatly. “And I doubt that either of you are.”

Mr Sandman laughed loudly at the statement, not even trying to hide his delight at Patrick’s discomfort.

“Before I brought you here, what were you going to say?”
“Donnie looked confused when you said The Guv’nor was trying to kill you. I figured that was a lie.”
Sandman smirked. “Don’t doubt that The Guv’nor would cheerfully see me dead.”
“Not cheerfully,” Donnie corrected to Sandman’s annoyance.
“Let’s just say he’s not all that fond of me,” Sandman replied grimly.
“So, what now?” Patrick asked with a hint of nervousness in his tone. “Are you going to let me go?”
“No,” Sandman shrugged. “I can’t really do that.”
“You can’t keep me here!” Patrick insisted, his nervousness growing.
“There’s no reason why not,” Sandman replied grumpily.
“No reason?” Patrick gasped at the outrageous statement. “I’ll give you a…”

Without a word, Mr Sandman raised his hand and waved his fingers down over Patrick’s eyes. In the blink of an eye he was once again being caught by Donnie and was on the verge of starting to snore lightly.

“This isn’t going well. I would say Benzedrine’s got the upper hand right now, Donnie,” Sandman sighed. “We have to stop him.”
“The others aren’t going to listen to you now, not since you took him,” Donnie nodded down at the sleeping singer.
Sandman sighed heavily. “I’m going to have to tell the truth, aren’t I?”
“And hope he believes you,” Donnie nodded.
“Damn it!” Sandman snapped. “Who’s going to believe the truth?”

*

Pete opened his eyes slowly. He felt deeply nauseous and his head throbbed with a crushingly painful ache. Closing his eyes again without even moving from the position he had woken in, he wished he were still unconscious. Lying still, he took several deep breaths, realising as he did that he was trembling and dizzy. He needed more sleep, whatever had happened to him had been wiped from his memory, he hoped temporarily, and all he knew was that right now he felt disorientated and confused.

“Your breathing’s changed,” a female voice commented. “Are you awake?”
“No,” Pete slurred groggily just wanting to be left alone and wishing that he had ignored the intrusive question.
“Here,” the voice spoke again, soft and sympathetic. “Drink this.”

Pete opened his eyes once more and raised his head as much as he was able without stretching too far. He focussed on a slender woman dressed in a tight skirt and skimpy chiffon blouse that left little to the imagination.

“Who are you?” he asked frowning, but admiring her gentle curves.
“I’m Eleanor, I’m looking after you.”

The answer explained nothing but in his weakened, confused state, he barely noticed. Stretching out, he realised he was lying back on a comfortable bed; the soft cotton sheets only encouraging him to drift off to sleep once more. He would have done but for her insistent voice demanding his attention.

“Do you remember where you are?” she asked sweetly.
“No.” Frowning thoughtfully for a moment, Pete gave up and sighed, unthreatened and unworried by his lack of memory. “Remind me?” he asked.
“I’ll get the Guv’nor,” she smiled. “But first, drink this.”

Pushing himself slowly up onto his elbow, Pete stared at the glass and frowned again.

“What is it?” he asked slowly.
“It’ll make you feel better,” Eleanor promised with a sincere compassionate smile.

With a vague nod of his head, Pete reached out shakily for the glass. Taking a sip, his eyes fluttered in surprise at the sweet, fruity taste that held his undivided attention. Despite his earlier nausea, Pete raised the glass to his lips once more and tipped it up, draining the contents in seconds. The exquisite flavour focussing all his thoughts and energies, Pete was oblivious to all sights and sounds.

“Tell me,” Eleanor began, “do you remember who you are?”
“No,” Pete replied distractedly, sighing happily, his mind still firmly fixed on the drink.
“Not at all?” she pressed.
“Do I need to know?” he asked almost irritably as she pressed the question.
“No,” she smiled, satisfied with his response as he pressed his shoulders down into the comfort of the bed once more. “No, it’s not important. I’ll get The Guv’nor. He wants to speak to you.”

Pete gave a vague, lazy nod as she went in search of The Guv’nor, whoever he was. Relaxing further, nothing felt important to Pete, nothing except the extreme comfort of the bed and the pleasant fuzzy feeling that now washed over him, relieving him of all his pain.