Episode four: III
She dreamt of checklists written in cursive script, endless columns of ticks against titles.
Banker, check, teacher, check. Pilot, check, thief, check. The list went on and on.
Scene change, she dreamt of wriggling somewhere deep under the earth, mud wedged under her fingernails and blue biro smudged at her lips. The tunnel she crawled through was made of concrete, the water slippery and cold at her hands, feet and knees. Best way to get rid of the blood and get out unseen, he’d said. Best way to get hypothermia too, so be careful, pet.
Scene change, she dreamt of sitting on a hotel bed, thin duvet bunched under thin fingers. The news was on, and Carthy was 8 years old again. The news was on, and Carthy was losing her mind, eyes ever wider as the realisations went on, and on, and on.
She woke in cold sweat. Fell asleep again in a disoriented tumble, flitted in and out of her bedroom with feverish uncertainty. Her sheets became increasingly tangled at her wrists, her throat seared with every semi-breath. The dreams continued, and Carthy was powerless to stop them.
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