Chapter 2

Mom is choppingsomething in an unfamiliar kitchen, while a child version of me is opening a packet of manna.

My younger self looks to be about five and must be filtered through Mom's memories. I doubt I was that adorable, and I'm skeptical of that innocence in my eyes. Though I don't remember anything from when I was younger than seven, I couldn't have changed this much.

A part of me is disappointed. My dreamwalker powers allow me to tell if a dream is based on a memory, and that's not the case here. It would've been a chance to learn something of my early years—one of Mom's many taboo subjects.

Mom starts chopping with greater intensity.

Something prevents me from clearing my throat to inform her of my presence. As much as I yearn to speak with her, curiosity and a certain intuition lead me to observe for now. I turn invisible—and just in time.

Clutching the knife so hard her knuckles turn white, Mom lunges at the little me.

What the puck?

Mom's face is an unrecognizable mask of hatred as she stabs the little me in the heart. My child self screams in pain—which is the only thing that covers my shocked gasp.

I disable my sounds and breathe deeply to calm myself.

It's just a dream. Dreams can be chaotic and crazy. This doesn't mean Mom wants to kill me.

What I just saw doesn't have to be a manifestation of Mom's anger about our fight.

A new dream starts.

We're in our apartment on Gomorrah. Mom is watching as a teenage version of me stands in the middle of the room with a VR headset on her head. As I look around, I notice something curious—some of the windows around us are black.

I first came across the concept of a black window in the notes of Leal, the murdered dreamwalker from the New York Council, and I learned more about them in the dreams of Nina, the telekinetic who acted as a sort of memory storage for said dreamwalker. Nina herself had a troublesome memory that she'd had Leal lock away behind a black window.

Is that the case for Mom? Are these windows events that she, or someone else, erased from memory? It could explain why she didn't have a trauma loop. Whatever's troubling her could be hidden behind the black windows.

Before I can follow this chain of thought further, the same look of hatred appears on Mom's face, and she tackles the unaware teenage me like an NFL linebacker, shoving her with all her might.

My teenage self flies at one of the regular windows. Flailing, she crashes through the glass and plummets to the pavement far below.

What. The. Hell?

The dream changes again. This version of me looks to be ten or so, and is sleeping. Mom is looming over her with that same frightening expression on her face.

"Please tell me you just want to dreamwalk in her," I whisper, but she can't hear me. My voice is still disabled.

Grabbing a pillow, Mom places it over the face of the sleeping me, smothering her.

Puck.

I give myself the ability to make sounds again and become visible.

"Mom," I say tightly. "I think you're stuck in some hellish nightmare."

At least I hope that's what's happening. There's no way she's enjoying killing me over and over like that. I wasn't that annoying of a daughter.

Confusion replaces hatred on Mom's face.

"You're dreaming," I say quickly. "This—"

"You're dreamwalking in me!" Mom looks furious enough to kill the real version of me this time.

I instinctively back away. "You don't understand. I didn't have a choice."

She points her hand at me, and an arc of lightning shoots from her fingers into my head.

I feel like someone's turned me into a lemon, squeezed me dry, and blended the leftover meat and peel into a smoothie.

I open my mouth to scream, but it's too late.

I'm no longer in the dream world.