Written for four different prompts for a challenge

Dreams and Memories

(Hurt)

It always starts the same. She's back on that field, confused, scared cold. She turns and screams Jackson's name even though she already knows he is not there when she sees him. She wants to run, desperately and yet her feet won't let her move from the spot while his silhouette is coming closer and closer and then it's all red eyes and teeth and agony while she hits the grass.

That's where the dreams start deviating from reality. When it had happened, she had blacked out and woken up in the hospital with people assuring her she's safe (a lie). In this world, she just chokes on the pain, not giving up, still trying to crawl away from him, but he won't let her. He's leaning over her, his face buried in her neck and she can feel his fingers moving over her side, tracing the wound he just left on her.

(Smile)

Suddenly she's in her bed, seemingly woken up from a nightmare, but Lydia knows better by now. It's never as simple.

It's quiet, the air is warm, but not hot and there's the soft glow of moon light on everything in her room. She's holding her breath while sitting up, not sure what will happen, but very aware that something will happen. Tears are welling in her eyes, because she can do nothing to stop it.

Slowly she gets up and when she moves the blanket away she sees it. The bite mark, the open wound is still there, her nightgown ripped in its place and even though it doesn't hurt this time it's still bleeding furiously.

She closes her eyes and tries to breath, but when she opens them he's right in front of her face, kneeling at her feet and smiling. He's always smiling at her, she thinks, but different smiles for different situations.

Sometimes it would be gentle, almost loving, while he plays with her hair and tells her terrifying little tales. Other times he doesn't care to hide the pure sadistic joy he gets from hurting her, his grin showing his teeth while he rakes his claws down her body.

She wishes he wouldn't, because it makes her feel like he still has a life of his own within her.

(Love)

His hands are on her when she snaps out of her thoughts and he's pressing her back, back into her own bed until she's lying on her back. He's sitting down beside her, softly tracing the outline of her ruined nightgown. A thread here and there hangs out, perfect to wrap around his finger, pull a little, tear a little until the hole gets bigger.

"I hope you can help me with something", he asks casually. "I just need you to answer a few questions for me, Lydia, nothing bad."

As if to contradict himself, he dips his fingers into her flesh where it's raw and bleeding, making her scream hoarsely at the sudden pain. "That is, if you can give me the answers I want."

She waits, then, crying openly now, for his questions, but he takes his time. His fingers, red with her blood wander over her thigh, not quite touching her before he lets them settle at the knee. Once more he smiles at her before he starts moving his hand again and when he lets go she can make out the word "love" on her skin, written in her own blood. He's staring down at the word, fascinated.

"I need you to tell me about you and Jackson. Do you love him?" It startles her. She wants to tell him no, she wants to tell him yes, but really she just wants to get away.

"I don't know", she whispers, barely getting it out. "I did once. Maybe…"

Relief waves over her when the answer seems to satisfy him.

"Do you think he still loves you?" He is wearing a curious look on his face, as if he legitimately cares, as if he won't just use the information against them all sooner or later.

By all accounts, all her memories of how Jackson had mistreated her, yelled at her, scared her, told her she was dead weight he needed to drop, she should say no, but that's not quite true either. She's just not sure how she knows.

"Yes he does. He loves me." It makes her feel a little better, so she clings to the knowledge as if it was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

(Final)

She knows she is alright when she wakes up, not in her old room, but her college dorm, the sunshine and voices of the people outside coming in through the window. As alright as you could be with nightmares like these haunting you.

Lydia takes a few moments to breathe and shake the memories of her dream. Already they are starting to get hazier, fleeting to the back of her mind, remerging with the memories from which they originated.

It would be alright, she tells herself again. She had left Beacon Hills behind her last year, going off to college and being her best self. She had started a new life and she would not let a few dreams destroy that for her.

Routines are important and hers had been perfected during the past few months: get up, shower, wash it all off, get dressed, put make up on, go to class.

Lydia is perfectly ready to leave her room, have a perfect day and ace all her classes, but when she opens the door there are flowers on the doorstep; pretty and blue and utterly too recognizable. Her entire body suddenly freezes up and she has to force herself to reach out with shaking hands, taking the card before leaping to conclusions.

Happy Birthday. Peter.

She drops it as if she had been burnt and retreats back into her room. She slams the door shut. Tears are welling up in her eyes as the feeling of utter helplessness overcomes her.

In her need to leave her old life behind she'd forgotten her own birthday. And she had been naïve to think it would ever end.