(no subject)

Shelley screams, more in shock than pain. But then she feels the pillow under her cheek, and opens her eyes, gasping for breath reflexively.

Dreaming.

She had been dreaming.

Again.

Shivering still from reaction, she sits up, wincing slightly as she does so, and glancing down at her arm. In the half-light it is tricky to see, but there is a visible dark scratch on it - shallow, but right across and down her forearm. The slash inflicted by the man in black had been deeper, but the position is identical.

...What the hell?

She forces herself to stand, and makes her way to the bathroom, switching on the light. Staring at her white face and slightly dilated pupils in the mirror, she shudders at the memory of the dream- thing. If it was even that, she thinks, looking down at her arm with a troubled expression. Mechanically, she turns on the tap, and washes it carefully - though there is very little blood really.

You could be responsible for a tragedy of a scale that would rival those wreaked by the madman Jasin Natael and his allies.

Unable to look at her own frightened face any more, Shelley switches off the light, and slowly walks back to her bed, careful not to trip or bump into anything in the dark.

You are the missing difference between what should be and what happened in my time.

She sits, pulling the sheet up around her shoulders, and huddling quietly there.

...if you do not help, then the endeavour will fail. History will be changed, and the results will be catastrophic.

It is nearly dawn by the time she gets back to sleep.

My children will not forgive you.