Prologue
On The Other Side of Reality
By Arabella Mann
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Prologue
She tightened her grip on the knife, fighting against the urge to close her eyes and rest. The weapon felt flimsy in her hand, but it was all she had. Over and over again, she lamented herself for not knowing more about defense. For not being suited for protecting the purest love she’d ever known.
She glanced at the baby in the crib for the thousandth time that night, relieved to see the rise and fall of her tiny chest. It had been five days since she brought her daughter home, and she was exhausted. She’d spent the first day, still recovering from birth, securing all of the doors and windows of her house. By the second day, the young mother had locked herself and her baby in the bedroom, a knife by her side at all times. During the third and fourth days, she had obsessively watched over her child while fighting off sleep.
By the fifth day, her paranoia seemed to loom over her. Her body and mind fought each other, one longing for sleep, the other torturing her with a myriad of repulsive images. She couldn’t allow her attention to slip for even a moment. He would come for her; she was sure of it. And he couldn’t be stopped. Not a single law or rule could restrict him. She remembered the way she used to swoon at his power. With every trick and impossible feat, he set the trap in which she fell. It wasn’t until she began resisting his charms that he revealed the true immensity of his power.
The baby sighed and cooed in her crib, ripping her mother from the Sandman’s grasp. She lifted her daughter from the crib, gently bouncing her as she studied the baby’s perfect button nose and the bright blue eyes she’d gotten from her father. She had a single strip of light blonde hair, slightly curled at the end. It may be a common sentiment among mothers, but the woman truly felt that her child had a kind of enchanting allure no one else could possess. As her daughter drifted back to sleep with shaking hands, she reluctantly returned her to the crib.
With a watchful, tired eye, she sat on the foot of her bed, knife firmly in hand. She hadn’t showered in days, battling the fresh scent of a newborn with the stench of sweat and grime. But, beyond the tense atmosphere of a mother’s worries and an infant’s cries, she recognized something.
Poppies.
The subtle yet distinct aroma surrounded the woman, tightening its grip as she fought against it. With a gasp, she pressed her palm against the blade of her knife, hoping to break the spell, but she felt no pain. As the aroma reached her mind, all worry and conviction dissipated. For the first time in months, she felt only peace.
She awoke to a stinging pain in her hand and a silent room. Outside, young birds chirped with hunger, to which their mothers were quick to oblige, but inside, the woman stared at her bloodstained sheets, straining to hear a cry or coo from the crib in the corner. She didn’t want to look. She knew what she would find. She had failed. He had come just as she knew he would, and he had taken her child.
Their child.
