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Cat and Mouse

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"Get the hell off me," Luke grits out between clenched teeth. His arms are pinned against his side by a walking nightmare, in the fifth stages of decomp.

Robert looks down at the front of his pants and then lifts his gaze to Luke's mouth and grins, making no attempt to move his torso away from his.

"Or what" he challenges, wrapping his bony hands around Luke's wrists. "you'll shoot me?"

Luke twists his head away from Robert's fetid breath, and eyes the glock sitting on the nightstand. He's had night terrors before, following the deaths of the Peach family and his father, but this was a doozy. This felt real. Too real. Hell, it smelled real enough. Like standing in the middle of a sewage plant in full power but he had to do something to get him off. He looked back at Robert's lopsided, hapharzardly sewn neck, from the corner of his eyes, and made himself play along.

"Yeah, okay. I'd love to shoot you...again. Just give me another chance, and I'll make sure you stay dead."

Robert's grin widens. He slowly rubs his thumbs against the inside of Luke's wrists and watches as Luke's breathing hitched with each stroke, then whispered in Luke's ear, "is that what you really want? To shoot me? Oh Mouse, you're such a good little maggot. Always playing by the book," and at that, Luke felt a sharp, sudden, stab of pain under his rib cage and was jolted awake.

Luke was jolted out of sleep in a cold sweat, puffing clouds of air in the middle of his backyard. He was lying on his side, facing a white picket fence, when he caught sight of it and froze. He stared in disbelief and felt himself shiver against the cold, at least, that's what he told himself; for next to where his head had been laying, was the outline of a mouse, drawn in the bare patch of his lawn.