The Dead Heart - A Slice of Rathgate

By Becky Finnegan



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All his dreams start the same. At first theyıre the normal kind, he wakes up to find his ex-girlfriend in bed with him and fiancée. Then things start to turn into a haze of memories that he can't place.

In these dreams everything looks familiar, but somehow wrong. Everything takes on the same colors; a hazy black, a fuzzy white, an intoxicated shade of green that bathes the other two. When these first appear he is almost comforted. Then it happens he sees the shifting memories of his great-grandfather.

A voice rings out among the images. "Hello Girlie." The voice of convicted killer Michel Tolson rings through Trent's head. Tolson's "buddies" stood behind him waiting for something.

"Look you guys should be in your cells...." Trent started. Tolson pounced like a big cat and knocked Trent to the floor. What came next Trent could still feel after three years to the day it happened. This is the nightmare he still has of that dark day in Sunnydale.

"Grab his arms bitch," rang a voice that didn't belong to Tolson. It belonged to Trent's great-great-grandfather, one Rev. Thoms Rathgate. "I's said ta grab his arms ya damn cay-jon whore." Trent could feel a pair of thin hands latch onto his wrists; forcing him down.

"There ma cher." A thick cajun accent of a tall thin pale woman was all Trent heard as flashes of black overlaid in green was all he saw.


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The Dead Heart © 2000 by Becky Finnegan

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