Dried tears caked my face, remaining alive in the damp patches on my pant legs. The wooden door, painted white that stood before me mocked my feeble attempts with each glance. My freedom, was literally right here...

So close, and yet so far away.

"Stand." The voice had returned, the command croaking out from the lowest reaches of his throat. Placing both palms on the cold, wooden floor, I push off and force myself up to my feet. Still facing away from where the TV sat, I take a deep breath before turning around. Click. The faint glow of light falls from the ceiling, illuminating the room slightly. On the far side of the room, I swear I can hear footsteps, slowly but surely coming closer with each pounding step.

"Jessie?" It inquires; taking a sharp inhale the second the word passes its lips. A knot forms in my throat, and I begin to swallow continuously, trying in desperation to stop my mouth from being drowned in spit. Droplets of ice cold sweat form on my forehead, dripping down the bridge of my nose before hitting the floor in a staggered pitter patter.

I didn't want to, but I forced myself to look from the ground, at the source of the footsteps. Peering up from the wooden floor, my eyes focus on one sight in particular.

That fucking face.

"Oh, Jessie!"

The same face from the television screen, on an equally grotesque body stands on the far side of the room, coming near me. Its footsteps echo across the empty room, pounding like thunder with each motion. The tears unwittingly falling from my eyes play the role of rain.

"What's the matter, my darling?" The whisper gradually increases in intensity; finalizing at a gut wrenching crescendo. Stray globs of blood and pus fly from his mouth and splatter on the floor. Through my teardropped stained eyes, I get a distorted, contorted view of the thing that's approaching.

The body appeared to be in worse shape than its face, if it were even possible. Brick colored blood dripped from greyish purple holes in the chest. Across the sternum, running diagonally down his left ribcage was a series of three wide gashes, the pink hue of the raw, exposed skin providing some escape from the grey skin that covered every other inch. One of the arms hung from its socket, on the verge of falling off. The fingers on said arm having a beige tint that contrasts with the black engulfing the other.

It staggers across the floor, dragging the side that the arm hung off of behind it. Curiosity keeps me stuck, back against the wall (both literally and figuratively) and staring it down. My breathing hastens, and I clutch my chest. Pounding in my chest throughout this whole experience, my heartrate begins to decline. Struggling to hold in the gasps of oxygen, I drop to my knees. I swear, I think it's, I think it's laughing at me. The thing's face shows no sign of emotion except for that one, fucking grin. I, I can't look.

So, I shut my eyes, and clench them closed.

"Jessie?" The voice says, concern conveyed in the one word question. It sounds as though it's coming from right in front of me, and I'm too scared to peak.

"W-what?" My voice comes out broken, frightened. Rapidly, I inhale and exhale, unable to keep what little air I'm breathing still. The air around me begins to smell stale, and chokes me on each inhale. More tears form themselves on account of the perpetual coughing fit.

"Open your eyes." The voice changes. No longer gravelly, no longer masculine. Pleading, the voice is familiar, but I just can't put my finger on it. "Please," it continues on, sounding more and more desperate.

"Look at me."

I can't help it anymore. My eyes force themselves open, and I see...

Anna.

---

I nod to the man standing outside the window, who escorts a woman into my office. Her eyes tear filled, the blonde hair on her head strewn about in every which way, a sweatshirt that looked about three sizes too big for her and a pair of black sweatpants covering her body. Those ocean blue, soaked eyes avert their attention from me, opting to stare at the ground in a way that's very reminiscent of a certain someone.

This, must be Anna Nyman.

"A pleasure to meet you, Anna. If, of course, I may call you that," I begin, not making an effort to mask the pleasure in my voice. The look on her face escalates from sullen to pissed off in .45 seconds flat. A single tear rolls down her cheek, as a fire that I haven't seen out of anyone in a long while sparks in those eyes of ocean blue. Oh, what a humorous hint of irony can do to lighten even the most dire of situations. She stomps the ground, coming an inch closer, before spitting her words with venom behind every syllable.

"No, you very well may not," she begins, begging me almost, to take her seriously. I just smile and nod, trying to restrain the laughter I feel is ready to explode out of me at any moment.

"Well in that case, what can I call you, huh?" Not intending on making this easy for her in the slightest, I bite on that response, and she stands there, still as a statue. Her glare burns past my eyes, as if she was trying to see just where I'm going with this.

"Don't call me anything."

"Ooh, feisty."

"Do you really want this to end poorly?"

I tilt my head to the side, contemplating this juncture for a moment. Then, it hits me. Like a train, or a bus, or the opposite of Peter Gilmour and a treadmill. I push the chair backwards, and stand up. An even more confident grin spreads across my face, and I point to her with one finger.

"No, you got it wrong," I start, mocking the sassy, defiant tone of voice she used on me. "It's you who doesn't want this to end poorly." I stab my finger at her for emphasis, laughing at how taken aback she is by this. "I couldn't give a fuck less how this goes, she isn't my fiance."

Anna cringes, and the laugh finally escapes me. Starting as a giggle, it soon explodes into a roaring round, accompanied like all good rounds, with applause. Tears well up in her eyes once more, and begin to fall liberally across her red hued cheeks.

"Puh-Please..." she starts and stops, trying in vain to control herself.

"No. We're going to have a nice, long chat." As bluntly as I could, I lay it out.

We were going to talk about her. Why would we not? I have access to my best source of information on her.

Her dreams.

Her fears.

What makes her tick.

Everything I could ever want, and more, was slouched over, poorly fighting back tears in front of me.

Would anyone expect me to waste this opportunity?

"Fuh-fine." She states this as if her consent was requested.

How cute, she still thinks she has a hint of control.

How cute, how adorably wrong...

---