Arthur King (chasingphantoms) wrote in inpoormerit, @ 2010-03-10 18:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | #abduction, #solo, arthur |
“Arthur? Arthur!”
King stopped running and glanced over his shoulder. That voice… “Roxy?” He peered into the underbrush, the forest around him lush and green and Roxanne’s voice so far away.
“Arthur! Here! We’re here!”
Changing his course, King took off toward the sound of his wife’s voice, following it frantically until he reached a clearing where the blackhaired beauty stood. She looked as if she hadn’t aged in ten years, bless her heart. “Roxy…” He took a step closer and moving to throw his arms around her, but she held up a finger, shaking her head.
“I’m not real, Arthur.”
Deep creases appeared in King’s brow. “Not real?”
Her sweet laughter filled his ears. God. How long had it been? He almost wanted to cry. “I’m never real in your dreams.” A smile. “But it’ll be all right, Arthur. Everything will be all right.”
A dream? But that meant…
And then the forest exploded into flame, red-hot branches falling haphazardly from the trees. The air thickened with smoke, and although King never coughed or spluttered, he could feel himself breaking into a cold sweat. “Roxy!” King was never, ever desperate, but his was the cry of a desperate man. When the smoke cleared, the forest around him had been demolished to a wilderness of blackened cinders, and the image of his wife was gone. Releasing a guttural yell of rage from his throat, King kicked a charred and blackened tree, which creaked and fell softly onto the ash-covered forest floor. It was always the same. Everything burned.
King opened his eyes, shifting uncomfortably on the sweat-soaked sheets. He hated that dream. Hated it more than anything. Very little could faze Arthur A. King, but this dream – no, nightmare was the word – with its visions of Roxanne and sometimes the laughter of his children… it was too much for him to take. It was as if he subconscious was taunting him with the past. Grunting, he rolled out of bed and began his morning stretches. His morning run would clear his head. It had to.
Pulling on his running gear, he was about to open his bedroom door when a noise from outside made him pause. Was that a footstep he’d heard? He crossed the room and opened his desk drawer and was just reaching for the gun inside it when the cloud of odorless gas that had been seeping under his door began to take effect. His vision blurred, and he dropped to his knees. Sleeping gas, his brain told him, his limbs heavy. Strange. It would’ve made much more sense to use poison. Perhaps they wanted him for questioning.
“Bastards.” He muttered, just before the darkness looming on the edges of his vision claimed him. At least this sleep would be dreamless.