Are we really that different from one another? Sloan mused.
Creed barely made it to his room, closed the door behind him and leaned against it to steady his tilting world. With a shaking hand, he searched his pocket for the pills Dr. Mor gave him and for a panicked moment, couldn’t find them in the folds of material. Careful not to lose control, he pulled the pocket of his fatigues completely inside out before finding the two white pills entangled in a tuft of lint. The sweat that had been forming at the temples of his severely cropped buzz cut slipped helplessly down his pale, taut face as he plucked them one by one into his hand.
Not able to form any more coherent thoughts about the possible ramifications, Creed tossed the pills into his mouth. He deliberately tucked them under his tongue for a moment hoping they would dissolve some in that sublingual position, entering his bloodstream more quickly, before allowing himself to dry swallow the powdery, bitter lumps.
He slumped to the floor, back still leaning against the door to his room hoping his heavy body would block the entrance to his only corner of privacy. There was a lock on his door, but it only worked from the outside. Anyone could gain access to his quarters whenever the mood struck them, but if they came now, there would be nothing Creed could do to hide what was happening.
The sunlight streaming in from the window on the opposite side of the room screamed like banshees to his raw optic nerves. Flashes of rainbow prism colors danced with the dust particles caught in the beam of light. Stifling a moan, Creed reached for the edge of the coarse, woolen blanket atop his perfectly made bed and covered his face with it completely. The blackness it provided offered only the smallest moment of relief from the visual pain. Now if only he could stop the nausea.
No freaking way I’m going to let myself throw up, he thought, terrified as the waves of crushing sickness churned in his stomach. I can’t throw up these pills. Keep it together, soldier. Keep it together, he begged himself until the blackness overwhelmed and he passed out from the excruciating pain.
That’s when he smelled her.
Strawberries.
Her dark hair smelled of ripe, deep-red strawberries. Her dark eyes were beyond beautiful. They were perfectly formed, large for her small angled face and shaped with a hint of the exotic. The dark lashes framing them only added to the effect, causing Creed to hold his breath at the sheer beauty. He reached out to touch her face and gasped when she leaned her cheek into his hand, closing her eyes responding with what could only be an expression of trust and love. He tried to speak, but no sound came. Her eyes smiled as she reached up with the most delicate hand and gently touched his forehead where his migraine pain originated.
Her smile changed to a look of worry, beautifully arched brows furrowed as she used her hand to rub a small circle in his skin, and with each evolution of her thumb, he felt the pain lessen, until it was completely gone.
The mysterious girl with the beautiful eyes and healing touch smiled widely before taking her hand away from Creed. Then she reached to her side for something. In her hands was what looked to be a soft, white blanket—pleasantly iridescent and strawberry scented. With the gracefulness of a dancer, she opened the blanket with a flourish and covered Creed with it. He was lying down now, watching her intoxicating eyes vanish behind the blanket’s billowing form before it floated over his tired body instantly filling him with the same white iridescent light of which it was made.
He moaned joyfully, feeling peace he had never known. Her warmth and scent enveloped his pain, soothed him, and left him feeling a gentle vibration deep inside. He never wanted to leave.
He watched her eyes watching him and quietly begged Please don’t ever leave me. Please. Please.
When he woke, tears were pooling down the bridge of his nose and into the Facility-issued, wool blanket wrapped snuggly around his head. He pulled the scratchy cloth off himself and gingerly wiped the wetness off his face with the back of his hand. His head felt sore, but the migraine was gone. What wasn’t gone was the echo of the vivid dream he just experienced.
The strawberry scent
The wide, dark eyes
Her soft, healing touch
And her pure, white glowing blanket.
He lay on the hard linoleum floor of his room trying desperately to hold on to the last wisps of her memory and wishing more than anything that she was real.
Chapter 25 No Turning Back