Battered Dreams Read online

  Battered Dreams

  Hadena James

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Battered Dreams

  Hadena James

  Copyright © Hadena James 2015

  Smashwords Edition

  Acknowledgments

  As always, the first thank you has to go to Mollie & Jason, who put up with the writer side of me.

  A big thanks to Angela Fristoe of Covered Creatively for her excellent cover design.

  For everyone that reads the series… It’s my goriest book to date… Good luck! At least, I didn’t leave it with a huge cliffhanger (unlike Summoned Dreams).

  Also By Hadena James

  The Dreams & Reality

  Tortured Dreams (Book 1)

  Elysium Dreams (Book 2)

  Mercurial Dreams (Book 3)

  Explosive Dreams (Book 4)

  Cannibal Dreams (Book 5)

  Butchered Dreams (Book 6)

  Summoned Dreams (Book 7)

  Battered Dreams (Book 8)

  The Brenna Strachan Series (Urban Fantasy)

  Dark Cotillion (Book 1)

  Dark Illumination (Book 2)

  Dark Resurrections (Book 3)

  Dark Legacies (Book 4)

  The Dysfunctional Chronicles

  The Dysfunctional Affair (Book 1)

  The Dysfunctional Valentine (Book 2)

  The Dysfunctional Honeymoon (Book 3)

  The Dysfunctional Proposal (Book 4)

  The Dysfunctional Holiday (Book 5)

  Short Story Collection

  Tales to Read Before the End of the World

  Screams

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Home

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  The Party

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Studying

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Volleyball

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Critical Threshold

  Disappearing

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Note About The Series

  About the Author

  Screams

  Sixteen-year-old Sabrina Reeves begged for her life. Tears and snot ran down her face. Her arm hung limply at her side, already shattered from warding off the first couple of blows. Sabrina was defenseless and she knew it, so she begged, trying to stop the attack.

  Jess was merciless, listening to the pleading with a smile and egging it on, hoping to hear more reasons to spare Sabrina’s stupid, useless life, as the bat hung menacingly.

  Sabrina had not been randomly picked. Drug use and promiscuity were her only contributions to society. Sabrina couldn’t even be bothered to find a minimum wage job to pay for her drugs.

  “Please, Jess, don’t do this!” Sabrina shouted at Jess. “I’ll change! I can do it! Just give me a chance!”

  Jess was growing tired of the repetitive pleas. Sabrina wasn’t very imaginative. Her reasons for wanting to live were selfish and asinine. Jess brought up the bat and took a two handed grip. Sabrina screamed, raising her good arm to defend against the blow that was coming. Jess swung. The aluminum bat made a dull ringing noise as it hit Sabrina’s skull, right above the ear. Blood exploded from the wound. It sprayed the bat, the wall, and the floor.

  Sabrina was knocked over from the force. The world was moving even though she wasn’t. The pain was consuming. Her arm hurt and tingled. Her head hurt, both on the outside and the inside. Despite the pain, she tried to convince herself it was a nightmare; one that she desperately needed to wake up from.

  Jess swung the bat again, this time in a more downward motion. It caught Sabrina’s shoulder. There was a cracking sound and the bat recoiled. It sent shockwaves up Jess’s arms.

  Sabrina was attempting to crawl away. Jess stomped on her leg and was rewarded with a wet popping noise. Sabrina screamed. The sound echoed in the small chamber. Jess’s smile widened. The screams filled Jess’s ears with a buzzing noise. It felt wonderful.

  Jess raised the bat again. This time, it landed on the back of Sabrina’s skull. Blood instantly ran from the wound. It was raised and brought down again and again and again. The bat was coated in blood. It splattered against the walls and floor. It pooled near Sabrina, who no longer screamed, but made small mewling noises.

  Determined to prolong the amazing feelings, Jess stopped swinging at Sabrina’s head. The bat landed body blows instead. A bone broke in Sabrina’s leg with a sharp crack. A second blow hit the leg. The bone burst through the pale flesh of Sabrina’s leg. Jess stared at the bone in awestruck fascination. Jess had never seen bone jutting from the skin before.

  The end of the bone wept. A mixture of reddish blood and yellowish marrow leaked from the splintered end. It flowed onto the flesh, mingling with darker blood from the skin, changing the tint, before falling to the dirty floor. The floor soaked it in, as if it were water from the heavens, nourishing the brown earth.

  Jess couldn’t help but watch. Sabrina still made quiet, inhuman noises, but her body had stopped struggling for survival. A tremor was visible, a spasm of all her muscles, in response to the shock and pain. Sabrina’s long, beautiful, auburn hair was matted and dirty. Blood made it shine in the dim lighting. Fluid that was thicker than blood, but lighter in color, dripped from the battered head. The vessels in her eyes had ruptured, turning the whites a vibrant hellish red. She drooled a mixture of blood and saliva that also soaked into the dirt.

  Massive bruises were forming all over her body, proof that she was still alive, even though she shouldn’t have been. The hideous purplish-black marks appeared underneath the welts. Swelling sprang up right before Jess’s eyes, like magic.

  The spectacle was mesmerizing. Jess let go of the bat, savoring each moment and the inhalation of a coppery tang from the blood. There was so much of it. It flowed freely from different spots. The dirt seemed to crave it almost as much as Jess.

  Under the smell of blood was the smell of sweat. Sweat created from fear and pain. It stung Jess’s nostrils like vinegar, but filled some void within the brain. It was intoxicating.

  The desperate, fleeting whimpers of Sabrina whispered through Jess’s brain. It solicited the release of more endorphins. It kept Jess rooted to the scene, ensuring a full sensory enjoyment of the devastation she inflicted.

  Jess had killed before, but never like this. The kills had always been quick, merciful. A single stab wound to the heart from behind; a skillful kill, hiding the identity of the perpetrator. Jess had done research to figure out how to kill using a single stab wound with a knife. Months had been spent practicing stabs between the wooden ribs of a dummy created specifically for that purpose.

  The other kills had released the tension and stress in Jess. It allowed her to become hyper-focused on whatever project s
he was working on. She had aced her last exam because her ability to study was enhanced by the stress relief that killing provided to her.

  Like Sabrina, Jess was sixteen and a sophomore in high school. Unlike Sabrina, she was an achiever. No goal was too lofty for her determination. Jessica Ann Blanks was an honor student, taking dual-credit classes through the University of Texas - Austin. She was president of the student council. She was captain of the volleyball team. Her older siblings were all achievers too. So were her parents. She had a role she was expected to fulfill, and she did it.

  Nevertheless, it was a stressful role. It exceeded the stresses her peers felt. She had to maintain all of her achievements and balance that with an image that she also had to portray. No one could ever understand the pressure that she was under. No one could ever imagine the daily stress that she felt from maintaining all of it.

  However, she didn’t care if they understood, not anymore. She had found an outlet, a release. Two years earlier, she had stood by a hospital bed, watching her grandmother struggle to survive the cancer that had ravaged her body. Jess had stood there as her grandmother had taken a final gasp, her eyes turning upwards, locking with hers, and then just went blank. As she had let go, unkinking the life giving oxygen tube, she felt relief. Her stress melted away, as her grandmother’s soul left its decaying husk.

  It had been a mercy killing and it filled Jess with euphoria. That night, she had gone home, written her paper on the fall of the Holy Roman Empire, and slept like the dead. A full night’s sleep was something she had never accomplished before. There had always been too much to do, but not that night. That night, she had been able to concentrate solely on the important things and when they were done, with her stress level reduced, she slept like never before.

  Now, she needed that once in a while. The stress relief that killing brought to her. The ability to focus solely on the tasks that needed to be completed was amazing, and her sleep was blissful. The effects could last for weeks or months, at least until her next real challenge reared its head and spat its acidic demands in her face.

  It was a form of control. Some teens used drugs, some were promiscuous, and some were cutters, but Jess considered all of them weak. Their stress outlets were self-destructive and provided proof that they couldn’t hack it in the real world.

  Jess was determined not to fall into the trap. She refused to let herself not be as successful as her parents and siblings. Failure was not an option.

  Sabrina’s eyes went blank. Her body heaved one last sigh. The room filled with the smell of urine and feces. Jess scrunched up her nose at the sudden changes. She’d been prepared for the blood and the death, but being prepared didn’t mean she had to like the now soiled smells that filled her nostrils.

  She’d packed water down into the cellar a day earlier. It was room temperature, making it feel chilly, as it ran over her skin. She bathed, making sure to scrub her hair as well as her body. When she was sure the blood was gone, she gathered up her clothing from the corner. They had been protected by a plastic bag. She dressed and set the bag on fire inside the now empty, but still damp bucket. It melted into a puddle at the bottom of the bucket. She waited a few moments for it to cool and then picked up the bucket. She’d toss it in a dumpster on her way home.

  Exiting the cellar, she entered an old abandoned barn. The farm hadn’t had a living tenant in it for at least a decade. Local losers used the barn as a party space on weekends. Graffiti decorated dilapidated walls.

  It sat on a dirt road outside the limits of San Marcos, Texas. Roughly a half-hour from Austin, it was a smaller town with a population of about fifty thousand residents and one high school. Jess attended the high school, as had Sabrina.

  One

  Intense eyes stared at me. A question burned within them; one that I had no intention of answering. Patterson might have been my grandfather, and I might have agreed to come see him, but I wasn’t here to answer all his questions.

  “How are you?” He finally broke the silence that had stretched between us for almost five minutes.

  “Fine. Yourself?”

  “Good,” Patterson smiled. “I heard your test results came back as benign.”

  “Yes,” I told him. “As soon as we get a case, I return to active duty. They are not sure what caused it, but since it’s out, I have been doing much better and almost back to my old self.” I hated myself for answering the question he didn’t ask.

  “Eric and I have been meeting once a week with Father Bell. It was nice of you to lead him to us. He’s done wonders for us.”

  “If I believed one psychopath could quell the anger of another, I would use it more often.”

  “It isn’t anger he helps us with,” Patterson gave a short bark of laughter that might have been a chuckle, but sounded deranged, “it’s confession. It’s nice to confess to someone who understands.”

  “One vigilante to another,” I nodded.

  “Exactly. I find I can talk to him and he understands me. Eric can do the same. It has been good for our souls.”

  “People like us do not have souls.”

  “Us?” Patterson cocked his head to the side.

  “You, me, Eric, Bellamy Schneider, Brent Timmons, and every other monster on the planet, us. We do not have souls.”

  “Interesting to know you group yourself with us,” Patterson said.

  “I am like you, to a degree. Sometimes more like you than I want to admit. It is why I haven’t visited Eric lately. I have come to realize, on a very personal level, exactly what I am.”

  “A cancer scare brought clarity?”

  “No, the sitting around and waiting for answers after they took out a chunk of grey matter caused the revelation. Oh, I have been working my way there for a long time. I knew I had the physical characteristics of a psychopath. I knew I had urges that were hard to control, urges that wanted blood. I just wasn’t willing to admit to those things. Now, I can,” I paused, “and fully admit to them. It has also brought an understanding of why I’m out there and you’re in here.”

  “Clarity is a wonderful gift. What makes it so that you walk among the population and I sit in here?”

  “I trained myself to be a sociopath. I took whatever damaged mental center that controls the limited amount of emotions I can muster and ramped it up. To be blunt, I honed it, like any other skill. I turned it into something useful. I used Nyleena and my mother to do it, but I did do it. My emotions are as real as anyone else’s, but they just are not the same emotions, because they are a honed skill, not a given talent.” I clasped my hands in front of me. “I have also come to understand that if I can do it, almost anyone should be able to do it. Malachi has to some degree, and that is why he believes we should get married. He has feelings for me. He doesn’t know what they are, so he pretends they are romantic devotion. However, it works for him. His belief that I am his one true love, keeps him in the game and not out hunting game. I think you and Eric had it too. I think you both lost it, but I think you had it. Our gene pool is in need of some serious cleansing, it does create psychopaths as rain creates puddles, but it also has something in it that allows us to alter our mental state enough to change. I will never be functional. I will never feel guilt or empathy or remorse, but the other things I feel, they are real and I have to cling to those or I end up here.”

  “Why did you become so self-aware? That is not a trait of either sociopathy or psychopathy.”

  “One of my teammates told me I cry in my sleep. Since I wasn’t in physical pain, the only logical conclusion was that they were caused by emotional pain. However, I didn’t even weep when half my family died and my brother went to prison, so why on earth would I be feeling emotional pain? The short answer is the tumor. It stopped the flooding adrenaline that I felt. That small piece of information was the last straw. I realized that once the tumor was gone, I would go back to being me. I would not have to give up all my newfound knowledge. If I could feel with the tumor, I could feel w
ithout it.”

  “Do you feel?”

  “Yes,” I told him, “if I didn’t, I would not be here.”

  “What do you mean?” Patterson asked.

  “If I didn’t feel something for you, I would not have bothered to come, but I do feel something for you. It might be love or something akin to it, or it might be something completely different, I don’t know. I don’t feel for you the same way I feel for my mother or Nyleena, but thinking about you evokes emotions that are not anger, nor rage, nor hatred. Therefore, it must be a fondness, much like what I feel for Eric.”

  “Fondness,” Patterson said the word as if foreign.

  “You are my grandfather, despite your flaws. Eric is my brother, despite his. I feel something for Eric. It only makes sense that I would feel something for you.”

  “You are always very logical, it is scary to listen to you reason out your emotions,” Patterson answered. “But I will take whatever I can get. I want a relationship with you, Aislinn. That is the only reason I gave up. I could have gone down in a hail of bullets, content to know that Gertrude was dead, but I didn’t. If I was dead, I wouldn’t see you again and I wanted to see you again. I want to be a part of your life.”

  “This is how that starts,” I told him. “I’m not going to pretend that seeing you fills me with joy, or makes me want to swing from the rafters, but there are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon. I have a question, it is a curiosity question, although it will sound work related.”

  “Ask away,” Patterson nodded.

  “About the cane, why such a heavy head and stick?”

  “Have you ever been to Africa?” Patterson got a faraway look in his eyes and my response was unnecessary. “I have. I spent some time there, and I lived in an area that bordered a heavily trafficked savannah. Not trafficked by people, but by wildlife. I used to drink coffee standing outside my hut. One morning, a lion came very close to me. He was malnourished, scrawny, and desperate. For a moment, I looked like food. When he pounced at me, I did the only thing I could think to do. I hit him in the head like you would a pig. I only had a cup and my fist. I expected it to stun him. He died. He died at my feet. His hunger unsated. Later that day, the villagers where I was holed up began calling me the ‘Lion Killer.’ I couldn’t figure out why a single blow would kill such a magnificent animal. Even malnourished and starving, he was stronger than I was, and his starvation should have made him fiercer. A few days later, I was presented with the skull. The locals had skinned it, eaten the good bits, and cleaned the skull as a trophy. Between the eyes of that skull was a hole. I didn’t know it then, but lions have a very thin part on their foreheads. My blow had been enough to crush that section of skull and send chips of it into the lion’s brain, killing it. Work brought me back to the US for a while and I had the cane made, it was a ‘lion killer’ originally, but it worked on the skulls of humans almost as well as the lions.”