Descent

It starts with a blood curdling scream, ringing through the dead of night. Wild eyes fly open, darting around the room, searching for familiarity. Breath is shallow, taken in with rapid gulps, cooling a parched throat. Tremors rocket through tense muscle and the room seems to fluctuate in temperature.

"Arty?" A soft, tired voice breaks the frightened silence that has fallen. "Are you okay?" He turns to his left and feels his heart abruptly stop its uncomfortable hammering. His eyes drink in the golden curls cascading down slender shoulders.

"Minnie," he whispers, moistening chapped lips, "I had another nightmare." They blink in unison, taking in the gravity of his hushed statement.

"Maybe you should go back to the doctor," she says wearily, holding back a deep yawn. He frowns and reclines his head so that it rests comfortably on the headboard.

"They didn't help me last time…" his voice trails off as memories of sleepless nights arise.

"You didn't want help last time," she reasons, delicately running porcelain fingers down shivering arms. She remembers too.

"In the morning," he mutters, unsure of whether or not he is being truthful. Her lips are caught somewhere between sorrow and elation as she squeezes his arm. They embrace briefly and are slowly taken captive by the darkness of closed eyes.

Before long, a soft yellow glow filters through the windows, spilling onto ivory bed sheets. Cunning blue eyes open first and stare at a face hidden by a mess of tousled curls. He steps onto the expensive Persian rug; recounting the events he had bore witness to in the wondrous land of dreams. A guilty glance escapes his icy irises and falls upon the face of his beloved. She does not know what he dreams. And he is glad she can not see inside his head. As he slips into his suit, he feels slim arms wrapping around his waist, a head resting on his lower back.

"Its morning," she sighs into his white flannel shirt. He is suddenly painfully aware of the promises made during the unholy hours of that morning. With pursed lips he takes the phone from her offering hand.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

He sits in the stark white room, staring intently at the fish in the tank adjacent to his mahogany chair. A fishbowl life must be terribly easy. Everything is so cut and dry, so perfect, so predictable. He wonders if fish have nightmares and makes a mental note to conduct some sort of experiment in later days. As he moves to pick up the latest issue of Time, a door opens and all attention is focused on the room's newest occupant.

"Artemis," the newest man calls out, his cheeks wrinkling with a caring smile, "Can I see you please?" It's totally degrading, but he stands nonetheless and follows the flapping white coat into another smaller, whiter office. The strong door creaks shut behind him and he feels an undeniable sense of foreboding.

"Sit," the white-coated man instructs, motioning at a chair in front of a perfectly tidy desk. The patient obeys, sitting ever so gentleman-like. There is a stillness in the air, heavy enough to bring any man to his knees.

"Doctor Torrence," he says, noting how his vocal chords attempt to hold back any words he may want to speak. "It's good to see you again." The doctor chuckles and gazes over the top of his circular spectacles, boring his deep eyes upon the face of his wealthy client.

"You don't look happy Artemis," he says, the smallest hint of a chuckle creeping into his words. The pallid man replies with a stone-faced blink.

"I am not paying you to analyze my facial expressions doctor. I am here because of the dreams; the nightmares."

"Right," he nods curtly, his grey hair flailing about, "Are you actually going to talk about the nightmares this time? I'm sure you're aware that the only way I can help you is if you agree to help me."

Of course he is aware of that fact. He always has been. Yet, he insists on avoiding the inevitable. After all, some things are better left unsaid. He relapses into thoughts of where he travels in the lifeless hours of the night. He regrets some of it, but he is completely conscience that he regrets the wrong actions.

"Artemis?"

"I don't wish to talk about it today Doctor, perhaps tomorrow?"

"Come now Artemis," he coaxes, "They can't possibly be that horrible."

"You have no idea."

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

A/N: So, what did you think? Review please and let me know whether or not I should continue. This will be a short, chaptered fiction.

This is rated T for things that will happen in the next chapter, mainly violence and adult themes. You have been warmed.

Cheers!