Dream A Little Dream Of Me

TRIGGER WARNING: STORY CONTAINS MENTAL HEALTH REFERENCES, EXPLICIT DESCRIPTIONS OF CANNIBALISM AND PSYCHOLOGICAL THEMES IN GENERAL.

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Thirty minutes begins.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

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Her heels were loud. Victor had understood that since the day she walked in, unaware of how tasteful she would be. How her skin would taste if marinated in her blood for long enough. Usually, Victor liked to grill his victims and make a stew out of them. But with her? He would eat her raw if he got any chance. His mother was so scared for her baby when he was taken from her. The fact was:

Her baby loved the taste of chewy flesh and the metallic aftertaste of blood. It wasn't the richness of the flesh that he enjoyed most, but rather the fear his victims had in those last moments. There was generally a pattern to it. 'Stages' one might say.

1. The Yelling.

2. The Begging.

3. The Squirming.

4. The Crying.

5. The Screaming.

6. Their Final Breath

And that was it. Not with her though—and certainly not since his joys had ended. He had been forced to find a new vice: either yard time or puzzles, because they had taken away drawing after Manny Lopez tried to summon Satan. He had, in a way. Because that day was the one when Amara Johnson started working at Blackwood Correctional Centre. She had this way of speaking to him. Kindly. Gently. As though he hadn't eaten dozens of people for the thrill of it. And the thing was, Amara didn't seem at all bothered by his monstrous comments. So, he would test her, make her so uncomfortable she'd break apart. ****************************************************************************

"Hello, Victor."

The clock showed '29:42'.

Fifteen minutes of sheer silence later, Victor finally responded.

"Hiya, Amara. Sorry. Dr. Johnson," Victor corrected, knowing just how to push her buttons.

"Hmm. It seems your condition has worsened." Amara said flatly, waving her hands about just as aimlessly.

Victor let out a dry laugh, moving slightly; unbothered by the shackles constricting his arms.

Amara walked to a plastic gray chair, sitting down quietly. Her heels didn't make as much noise as they did on the linoleum of the corridors. After the two years that Victor had been stuck here for, he now knew every staff member's footsteps.

He knew Dr. Choi's footsteps were light. He knew the caretaker of one of the more dependent patients—the one whom he'd tried to eat during yard time—had faltering footsteps. But his Amara's? She had a bold stride.

"So, did you complete the puzzle I left for you?" Amara asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"No. But I had a really good dream."

"Oh?" Amara prompted, knowingly pushing him.

"Wanna know?" Victor continued, playing right on.

"Gladly."

That was all it took. With one swift movement, Victor lunged forward, now kneeling before her. He wrapped his bruised hands around two sleek metal bars. A glass sheet covered the gap between them, protecting Amara. Then he pressed his pale nose against the metal.

"I dreamt such tasty things. Better than any dumb five course gourmet meal. Oh, Amara—" Victor was cut off.

"Doctor. I am a licensed doctor, so please address me correctly."

"Right." Victor allowed the slightest bit of annoyance to show on his face as he curtly nodded.

Amara brought a smile to her face again and stood from her chair. Only then did Victor notice the box in her hand.

"Go on." Amara murmured, and so he obliged.

"I dreamt of how delicious your ears would taste. So small and cute like a button." Victor whispered, now giggling like a child.

"Do you remember how you developed a taste for human flesh?" Amara asked, appearing to be genuinely curious.

Victor tapped at his chin, as though in thought and nodded.

"I do. Three years ago," Victor said, still smiling.

"Who was your first victim?" Amara asked, now wanting to push his buttons.

Victor simply shifted from his kneeling position and lay his head against the metal bar.

"Mother Dearest." He murmured before turning on his side. A gesture which clearly meant "I'm done talking." Amara checked her watch and then the clock behind her. It read '0:06'. Time was up. She moved from her position and slipped out the door, leaving Victor with his puzzle and box on the chair he could not reach.

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It was currently 2:46 AM of the 8th of September. Amara Johnson lay in her bed, pizza box on the floor and television quietly playing SpongeBob. Occasionally, Victor would quote the show. Amara Johnson believed in understanding her patients to their core, and quite frankly, there was a strong level of irony about Victor Mendoza. He was a monster, a freak, barely human—yet almost animalistic. So why did he watch children's shows? Perhaps it was the simplicity of it. The bright colors, the comforting plots and childish characters. It was so easy to get lost in.

Amara finally switched the television off, but as she settled in, her phone rang.

It was work. Reaching for the barely functioning Nokia, she propped herself up on her elbow.

"This is Dr. Johnson. Ah, yes. Well, I will be there in around thirty minutes," Amara said into the phone before throwing her covers off. Amara stretched before heading to her small bathroom. She threw cold water on her face before applying her makeup. And her perfume.

Victor loved the smell of her perfume, and the infatuation didn't end there. Especially since she was heading into work at three in the morning for him. And for her research. Something odd had happened. Victor Mendoza—serial killer, cannibal, in general monster—had a panic attack. Now he would know the dread his victims had felt. And Amara? She would know the sadistic joy he had felt watching his victims suffocate, watching the blood drip from their wrists as their eyes shut.

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No. No. No. Your Amara can't see you like this. She can't know you're weak— but—but I need help.

"Hello, Victor." Amara murmured.

He was curled up in a ball when she entered and he didn't even look up as she stepped inside. She was holding a manila folder in one hand, and a chain in the other. Attached to the chain was a small key. It looked like an ordinary key, like those found at hardware stores. Victor buried his head deeper in his chest, and Amara did something new. She slid the glass sheet aside and stepped in front of the metal bars. He looked up hoping to see her without her seeing him; but she caught his eye. She slipped her hand through and dropped the chain a few inches in front of him.

Amara wanted him to reach forward and take the chain. Which he did.

"Now that you have the key, you're going to need the box. Do you still have that box I left on the chair? Oh, wait. You couldn't reach it all shackled up... I forgot." Amara reminded him of his conditions, and he shot her a look of annoyance mixed with fear.

"Go away." Victor mumbled.

"I know you view me as entertainment, but I am still your primary caretaker. Now, Mr. Mendoza, shall we begin?" Amara asked.

Amara dragged the gray chair across the floor near him. Taking a seat, she opened the manila folder.

"Victor, you might have some idea as to why I'm here at three in the morning. I was called about you. Nurse Rhonda told me that you had a panic attack, and we are going to delve into that. Since you are lying down right now, shall we start? Or would you like to go back to your room?"

At that suggestion, Victor finally perked up.

"But—" He started and was silenced by her stare.

"I am fully aware of the risks of such an idea, but it's important for you to be comfortable because some rather uncomfortable topics will come up. And so before we start with that, I would like for you to relax your mind. Here." Amara slipped the box through the small gap in the bar and Victor held that in the other hand.

Unlike during the day, he wasn't shackled, though red marks were visible on his wrists from the irritation caused by the metal.

"What, now?" Victor asked, seemingly curious.

"Use the key." Amara prompted. Victor listened. Inside was one puzzle piece. Victor frowned as he held it up and Amara shifted in her chair, stretching slightly.

"You didn't manage to finish the puzzle, did you? Well, do you know why? Because it wasn't physically possible. You were always set up to fail."

Victor had this glint in his eye. Of fear, of hurt and oddly... determination.

"Go ahead." Amara asked. And he did. He walked to the other side of the cell where his almost complete puzzle lay. As he sat, Amara shifted in her chair trying to see him better. He could tell what the main image was. A duck. Or a rabbit. Either one. It was one of those optical illusions used in the loony bin. Victor had seen his roommate, Matty, be tested when he first arrived.

Then Victor had tried to eat Matty, and he was moved to solitary. There was peace to it. But also a gnawing fear. Some days he felt rather useless.

"Alright, so shall we begin?" Amara started.

"No. I don't want to. It's too late and I want to sleep." Victor whined.

"We're going to have to at some point, Vic," Amara said, and she shortened his name with purpose.

Victor's breath hitched and he stood. His face showed absolute confusion. Then realization. Then anger.

"You... you went through my stuff," Victor said. It wasn't a question nor a statement. It just was.

"Yes. I did." Amara confirmed.

"You can't—"

"Yes, I can."

Victor looked helpless and he buried his head in his hands, trying to block it out. To block out the deafening silence that made the air taste sallow. His hands shook slightly as he took short, shaky breaths.

"G-Go away..." Victor said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"I don't think she'd want that." Amara paused. "Nora."

She didn't need to say who. He knew exactly who she was talking about.

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Victor lay in his bed, the mattress stiff and like a slab of frozen chocolate.

"Victor?" Amara's voice came through clear. But not to him. He was asleep. Dreams. What a wonderful thing they were, perhaps as joyous as nightmares. Victor had one recurring nightmare— the one thing that broke him every night: what if he were to eat his sister?

His sister was six years younger than him and absolutely despised him. She had every right to. He was the reason she had to deal with a motherless life. With a snobby aunt. With a bratty cousin. With a deadbeat uncle. Her name was Nora. Tonight, he dreamt of skinning her then ripping her limbs off. It was sickening, gross and—

And he had never felt this degree of disgust about his vice before. So why did he feel it about his sister? Tasty Amara would probably kill to hear this. To hear vulnerability. That too, from him.

Victor tossed in his sleep and eventually just decided to count sheep.

"1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10..."

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Amara entered his cell, and for once—she was empty handed. Victor hadn't slept last night after his nightmare.

"Hello, Victor." Amara said.

She immediately took notice of the bags under his eyes and the way his eyes drooped.

"Hi. Amara—sorry. Dr. Johnson." Victor muttered.

"Good save. How are you feeling now? I know that your panic attack happened but you won't talk about it. We don't need to talk about it, but I would prefer if you used me as an outlet rather than—"

"I don't need goddamn therapy. What I need is to be released from this prison!"

"Victor—"

"No! I'm not a child!"

Silence.

"I am aware of that, and that is why I have done something I shouldn't have done." Amara admitted. She looked to the corner of the room, where a camera was placed. She stepped toward it and pulled out a chewed-up piece of bubble gum and stuck it to the camera; creating a blind spot.

"What are you—" Victor began but then stopped talking as a dish was slid to him. A bowl. With a human ear inside. A raw human ear. Amara looked incredibly uncomfortable and occasionally gagged. Her eyes looked rather watery as Victor reached for the ear. Holding it up, he placed it to his own ear.

"Why?" Victor asked.

"Why 'what'?" Amara countered.

Victor flicked the ear with a finger and aligned it to his mouth.

"Why'd you get me such a lovely gift?" He murmured as he finally peeled off some dead skin with his teeth.

"I- I felt pity."

Victor let out a laugh at that.

"You felt pity for me? A cannibal? How odd..."

"Well, aren't you going to ask?" Amara asked.

"Ask what?" Victor peeled off more skin as Amara took a step forward. Her expression seemed different. Less scared, more confident. But there was something else too. A hint of- of... satisfaction?

"Whose is it?" Amara answered, a glint in her eye.

Victor studied her momentarily before licking the ear.

"Well, whose is it?" Victor played along. What was the worst it could be? A child's? An old woman's? One of the nurses? A dead body from the morgue?

"Nora Mendoza. Passed at the age of 21. Quite a shame."

"W-What?" Victor asked, now holding the ear tighter.

"Nora Maria Mendoza. Passed at the age of 21. Mother, deceased. Father, unknown. Brother—"

WHAT THE—

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Victor awoke. He was in his college dorm, holding Amara Johnson. Except this time, she wasn't a psychotic psychologist. Nor was he a cannibal. He was a twenty-four-year-old medical student dating a girl majoring in law.

And he didn't have a sister. And he didn't have a mother. Victor had grown up with two fathers, and it hadn't always been easy. It still wasn't. So, the soon-to-be Dr. Mendoza sat upright, and reached for his glasses with relatively thick frames. The television was still on as Victor sat up. In an attempt to process what was happening, he woke Amara.

"AMARA!" He whisper-yelled.

"Hmm?" She asked, still half asleep.

Victor tapped her shoulder and once she came to, he started speaking. Fast.

"Amara, I had the most screwed up dream. You weren't my girlfriend and I was a cannibal! It was so weird!"

"Vic, just go to sleep... can we talk about this in the morning?"

"Y-Yeah... night Amara."

"Good night, Victor."

As Amara pulled the blanket over the two, she said one sentence. And Victor wasn't sure if he heard her right.

"At least Nora tasted good, right?"

Victor tensed and he felt the same feeling 'Dream-Victor' had felt after eating the ear. Pure dread.

What? How could she know that? I didn't even tell her...