Laat het brullen

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

Ik ben geboren, maar niet opgevoed.
Ik ben uitgebarsten.
Ik ben het onkruid dat in de verte groeide, gevoed door regenwater wanneer de hemel zich verwaardigde het te geven, verscherpt door een stevige wind, verhard en gepikeerd door ijzige kou. Gekleurd door incidentele vriendelijkheid, de hitte van de zonnestralen.
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Mijn spoor werd gelegd op haar rotsachtige aarde, en het maakte mijn ziel alleen maar donkerder, mijn hart dichter, mijn bloed heviger, mijn doel rauw.
Bij haar was ik alles wat ik nog nooit gekend had. Niet hulpeloos, niet blootgesteld. Niet machteloos.
En zelfs in al die jaren zonder haar en alles wat ik in de wereld bereikt heb, was ik niets anders dan een open handgranaat, stationair draaiend, klaar om te ontploffen.
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Haar slaap is onrustig. Ze mompelt woorden, ze fronst en draait de lakens in een vuist op dezelfde manier als ik doe.
Ik heb ook nog steeds die dromen, schatje.
"Raak me aan. Ik wil dat je..." Ik heb haar ooit in het donker gesmeekt.
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Vanmorgen, nog voor de dageraad van deze gloednieuwe dag was aangebroken, was die vastberadenheid sterker dan ooit, maar mijn doel is veranderd.
Ik wil haar terug.
Ik hoop dat ze van mij droomt. Ik hoop dat haar dromen net zo verward en golvend zijn als de mijne. De snede van het mes, de steek van haar mond blijven vers. Ze hebben me geïnspireerd, me dement gemaakt.
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Niet echt.
Ik ga met mijn duim over haar volle, zachte lippen, en ze wijken onder mijn aanraking. Een lichte ademhaling passeert tussen hen in, verwarmt mijn huid. Mooie lippen die ooit de mijne waren. Lippen die ooit woorden, gedachten en hoop met me deelden, de goede soort. Lippen die angsten en verschrikkingen deelden. Lippen die een gewelddadige hemel aanboden.
Ik wil die lippen nu nemen, ze bezitten, maar ik hou mezelf tegen. Ik heb haar nodig om ze vrijwillig aan mij te geven.
Ebn pdiaJtP zalh AzIeq.V
Mijn vinger schuurt langs het puntje van haar neus. Haar ogen dansen onder haar oogleden, knipperen open.
Blauwgroene glorie.
Mijn hart klopt in mijn borst en komt in één keer tot leven, en ik weet dat er niets veranderd is.
Zi*el_ donker_,c
Hart dicht,
Bloed woest,
Doel rauw.
Ik bGe^n TeMenK rfuOstivgle vman, oBpdlextlteónd,z irngtMro!verFt, niemt gebneQiKgd tpot' dKrLamaAtisNcKh)eA uitsprriak)eGnf.R Mhayar hie*r. zsta iRk, OidkO )voe^l .d(ie &kw.ellviMnwg, wdie qgolf) vani eYm)otie Mdie SaLlleae&n zij pbiPjI JmreM YompOrwoeDpt,y AeHnN zdOiMe& aVll_eVs wtejgvWaag!tR JwkaÉarX iVkp meR lal Ldie t*i*j.d* FaaGn LheQb$ Hv*astNgeHkAlyabmptR, kde_ abfkgDecleCgyen. DwBilgdnern&ihsk QwHa^arD ik_ wopon.
Die ogen hangen aan de mijne, en ik zie haar weerspiegeling in alle scherven van mij. Zij is de crux. Zij is de vlam. Mijn koorts, mijn woede.
Laat het brullen.

1
25 jaar geleden
"Moeten we hem houden of doden?"
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De duivel zelf.
In levende lijve.
"Weet je waar je bent?" gromde zijn diepe stem bijna.
Ikz .swchuddGe Pm_iZjn JhoofJd, ^oRnzekéerV ovIeqr lhove te paZntwomormd_e&n.É !D&e bwaa_rhleidé jheeft Fm'eV bimn h_eHt AvóerledemnH svIaakk itn det zprobl,eme^n. gebrach.tH. bWaNaXromv uzouW édYat* nlu ,a)nRd,er_sk ziHjn?'
Med grijnsde alleen maar, of misschien was dat alleen maar zijn manier van glimlachen zoals Jack Nicholson's Joker. "Hoe noemen ze jou?"
Ik duwde mijn armen omhoog, maar mijn ledematen waren nog steeds gevoelloos van de eindeloze rit hierheen in het busje. "Ik ben Kid."
Gelach gonsde om me heen als een blikje geschud bier dat afging. "Aww, is dat niet schattig?" zei een stem achter me.
"PxrVoHspZeHcNtK,R JeLh?l" *vÉroegM iM*etd, WziZjBn_ ogenX dwqa^lkeInldj ^ouveAr ÉmXi)jnn! ssKn,iótO.I
"Yeah."
"Perfect." Die Joker-grijns werd dieper, en het bloed steeg weer in mijn aderen.
"Ze zullen waarschijnlijk niet al te veel om je geven." Hij hief zijn kin op bij iemand aan mijn kant en mijn snee werd van me afgerukt. "Meer plezier voor ons."
"H.é!" veurxsptiknte ik.Y
Ze schopten me en rukten mijn laarzen, sokken en spijkerbroek uit. Ik was naakt. Dikke metalen boeien zaten vast aan mijn polsen, mijn enkels, mijn nek en waren verbonden met zware kettingen. Mijn hoofd zwom, een koud zweetspoor trok over mijn huid, mijn hart ploeterde door de modder.
"Weet je waarom we je hebben meegenomen?" vroeg Med.
"Omdat dat het soort shit is dat je doet?" Een klap kwam over mijn gezicht. Een zilverachtige waas overschaduwde mijn zicht.
"He^t iDs omudrat dek cVSlamLmKen vaGnp rde HveHlX dNeKnkaevn$ dat Gzeg cku_nunhecn UdÉoUeSn waGtf RzAeq wilóleFn$. Titj.d DopmW Éjucl*liGeH cRlub Pte lDate&na zidenP Vho)eJ *kSwa$aéd Aikt beuny ndbaItp ik Xzxe *o(pa Rmijn grond(gebiZeCd wbetrca.p Zterwfijl zYew dotenó swrakta iUkf ze Dh)ad xaBfigReradeInó.
Mijn maag zakte in. Reich, onze VP, had een dealer in Zuid-Kansas gevonden die door de Rokende Wapens werd bevoorraad, maar de Wapens hadden hem onlangs een ijsje gegeven en hem niet betaald wat ze hem verschuldigd achtten. Reich had ingegrepen en Flames of Hell-producten geleverd om nieuwe kopers te vinden, nieuwe verslaafden langs de route van die vent, een route waartoe we nog nooit toegang hadden gehad. Geld was geld, en we wilden er meer van, net als iedereen.
Mijn vader, een cluboudgediende en oud-officier, had hem gezegd dat het een slecht idee was. Al tientallen jaren vocht onze club constant met de Guns over territorium, over handelsroutes, over vrouwen, over noem maar op. Het enige wat ik hoorde toen ik opgroeide was: "Deze rotzooi moet ophouden." Maar dat gebeurde nooit. Het was een deel van ons dagelijks leven geworden, een deel van ons plezier. Ik denk dat geen van beide clubs wist hoe ze niet op elkaar moesten schijten.
Waar iedereen bij was, had mijn vader Reich verteld dat zijn plan verdomd stom en onvoorzichtig was. Reichs antwoord? Hij koos mij om de levering te doen met een ander clublid, en het werd heel snel goedgekeurd.
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Mijn hartslag klopte in mijn oren, mijn hartspier sprong over oneindige horden in mijn borstkas.
Med maakte een handgebaar in de lucht, en schoppen en stoten regenden op me neer. Ik zakte in elkaar en zeilde omhoog in iemands strakke greep. Klappen en stoten kraakten en sloegen over mijn lichaam, pijn explodeerde door me heen. Mijn hoofd zwaaide opzij, en ik hapte naar lucht, stikkend in mijn eigen speeksel en bloed.
Med keek me indringend aan en bewonderde mijn bebloede pulp. "Ah, welkom bij de Smoking Guns, Kid."
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Ik drukte me terug tegen de paal, hield me stil. Ik wist hoe ik dat moest doen. Mijn hele leven was ik iemands nakomertje geweest, een grijs deel van het landschap, maar dat was net veranderd.
Nu stond ik in het middelpunt.
Ik moet het bij elkaar houden. Hou het bij elkaar.
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Een figuur, een kleine, stond roerloos net achter de mannen. Een meisje. Lang, helderrood haar, en haar ogen... de meest betoverende ogen die ik ooit had gezien. Een vreemde combinatie van blauw en groen, zoals foto's van de Caribische Zee die ik in tijdschriften had gezien. Was het omdat haar ogen zo groot waren? Ik hield haar ernstige blik vast, en ze keek niet weg. Haar uitdrukking was somber, niet plagend, niet spottend. Ik was haar niet aan het vermaken. Mijn zicht was nog steeds wazig, en ik knipperde, maar ze was weg. Ze was waarschijnlijk een luchtspiegeling. Een luchtspiegeling van hoop en empathie in deze gekke Romeinse orgie midden in Buttfuck, Kansas.
Ik telde de lijnen in de gebarsten vloer, maar ik verdwaalde. Het waren slechts trillende krassen, en ik kon ze niet bijhouden. Mijn gewrichten deden pijn, mijn blote lichaam was koud tegen de harde vloer. Ik lag in een bal op die vloer, uren en uren en uren. Ik werd geschopt, er werd op me gespuugd. Uiteindelijk brachten ze me naar een gevangeniscel waar ik wat kon slapen. De volgende nacht brachten ze me terug naar de grote zaal en ketende me weer vast aan die paal.
"Hé, Kid! Raad eens?" riep iemand. "Het is al twee dagen geleden, en je club speelt het hard. Ik zei toch dat ze zich niet zo druk zouden maken over een vooruitzicht van hun.
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Med staarde op me neer. "Jij bent de zoon van Fuse, huh? Is dat niet bijzonder. Ik ken hem al een lange tijd. Nou, het slechte nieuws is, je vader is dood, en ze hebben het te druk met zijn begrafenis om zich met jou bezig te houden. Wat vind je daarvan, huh?"
Pa dood? Nee, nee, dat kan niet waar zijn. We begonnen net echt met elkaar om te gaan. Ik was een vooruitzicht nu...niet nu...niet...
Zure gal schoot uit mijn binnenste en schoot in mijn keel. Ik kotste mezelf helemaal onder. Wat er van mezelf over was. De muziek bulderde weer, en ik sloot mijn ogen, mijn lichaam krulde zich op tot een bal.
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"Ik maak je alleen maar schoon," zei ze.
Ik staarde haar aan. Wie was ze? Waarom deed ze de moeite? Misschien zou ze een mes trekken en ook met mij spelen. Mijn pijnlijke spieren bleven gespannen terwijl haar handdoek, een dik verbleekt rood, voorzichtig over me heen streek.
"Waarom?" Vroeg ik. "Ze gaan het gewoon weer doen."
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"Ik weet het," zei ze zachtjes. "Ze zullen." Die diepe stem was openhartig, berustend, en ik leunde dichter naar haar toe om er meer van te horen. Ze doopte de handdoek in een bakje met water en zeep.
"Hebben ze hem vermoord?" kraakte mijn stem. "Mijn vader? Weet je dat?"
"Nee, ze hebben hem niet vermoord. Hij was in jouw club en kreeg een hartaanval."
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Als ik werd opgelapt.
Als ik hier ooit levend uit zou komen.
Het meisje veegde aan mijn been en langs de andere. Haar aandacht was een soort verleiding. Ze bereidde me alleen maar voor op nog meer martelingen, nietwaar?
"B!lpijlfJ dv*erfdoqmmgeK vaynx m^e qaHf," vzeMi ik do)o_r MtandZePnV mte $kcnarésen.b
Ze stopte en ging weer op haar hielen zitten, haar lippen op elkaar gedrukt. Ze nam haar handdoek en kom en gleed terug in de menigte. Ik verstikte de tranen, de pijn. Ik had alleen maar pijn.
Niets dan alleen.

2
Een bebloed oog hing aan me.
Het wit was doorweven met rood, maar in het midden zat het meest opzienbarende oog dat ik ooit had gezien, en zeker het meest levende. Dat gesmolten ijzeren oog hield mijn blik vast, glimmend, tartend, en ik stond aan de cementvloer vastgeworteld door zijn kracht.
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"Je zult alles voelen wat we vanaf nu uitdelen." Motormouth's snerende stem deed me mijn kaken op elkaar klemmen. "Med wil dat je klaarwakker bent, je ellendig voelt en wenst dat je dood bent. Heb je dat begrepen?" Motormouth's laars met stalen tenen trapte tegen zijn ribben, en Kid's lichaam schoof op de grond dichter naar mijn voeten, zijn andere oog gezwollen en lelijk. Dichtgeplakt.
"Fuck you!" spuwde de gevangene uit, samen met bloed en smurrie.
Motormouth's handen grepen zijn nek, wurgden hem, en de benen van de gevangene zwierden, zijn hielen graafden zich in het cement. Gejank en verstikking vulden de vochtige ruimte, het gerinkel en geklingel van metalen kettingen, gespannen en slepend. Ik slikte hard, maar ik kon niet wegkijken. Ik mocht niet wegkijken, dus keek ik overal naar. Het was niet nieuw, maar een man zien vechten voor nog een ademteug was altijd inspirerend.
DLat! LwGas Vifkn,S dv_e$chltqe_nd Ovotor mijHn vAoJlgenBdIe wadezmteugY.u
Motormond liet hem los. "Je houdt je mond niet meer zo, begrepen, jij kleine etterbak? Kijk, je verdomde club komt je niet halen. Ze spelen met ons en met jou, vooruitzicht." Hij sloeg Kid op zijn gezicht.
De gevangene hapte naar lucht, zijn armen wrongen zich tegen de kettingen, en liet zich uiteindelijk vallen. Hij gaf niet op of gaf niet toe, hij nam gewoon een pauze. Dat ene bebloede oog knipperde, zijn hoofd rolde op de cementvloer. Hij kreunde of smeekte niet. Hij wendde zich alleen af, zijn borstkas naar lucht snakkend, de huid van zijn keel rood omrand.
"Verdomme, het stinkt hier. Spoel hem af." Motormouth boerde. "Ik heb een borrel nodig." Voetstappen. De deur sloeg dicht en sloot de geluiden van feestvieren en gekte buiten.
"QMotfor!"* SThiVt.V &N&um szaUt (ixkY mhi_er opvgIeslDoMtge'n.
Ik bewoog naar de kleine bol van zwak licht boven de gevangene. Zijn hoofd draaide zich naar me toe, en zijn ogen knipperden alleen maar. De kaak bleef strak op zijn plaats, vastgeschroefd door wantrouwen, woede, defensiviteit. Of die laatste strijd om voor zijn leven te vechten, wat ik ook deed of zei. Ik kon zijn woeste blik niet loslaten. Ik wilde het niet.
Sommigen zouden het nu al opgegeven hebben. Hij zat hier al twee dagen in een cel, en zijn uitdrukking was nog niet veranderd. Hij had nog steeds zijn mond niet opengedaan om me te vervloeken of me een variatie van kut, hoer of teef te noemen, zoals ik had verwacht. Ondanks zijn ketenen had hij niet geprobeerd me aan te vallen of te schoppen. Nee, hij stond roerloos naar me te kijken als een slang, wachtend op het juiste moment om te ontketenen, zijn hoektanden ontbloot om het ergste te doen. Ze hadden nog niet veel van zijn tanden verwijderd. Twee maar, in de rug, maar er zouden er morgen waarschijnlijk meer uitgetrokken worden.
Nog steeds geen antwoord.
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Hij bewoog niet.
"Haal al dat bloed en smurrie ook van je gezicht en handen."
Hij bewoog nog steeds niet. Alleen het oog keek naar me.
"BKo)m roVpa. 'Isk& zailP nJiet& mPe(tI jze solBlen."
Een grote trillende hand stak zijn hand uit naar de dikke waterstraal, zijn lippen gingen maar een fractie van elkaar. Hij wierp een blik op me met dat oog en vouwde zijn handen samen, zijn gezicht afspoelend. Het rode water kolkte en gorgelde rond de afvoer.
Ik hield de slang stil toen zijn mond openging en hij dronk en dronk en dronk terwijl hij naar me keek. Mijn gezicht verhitte onder zijn niet aflatende harde blik. Ik sloot het water af. "Moet je plassen? Nu is het de tijd."
Hij duwde zijn naakte lichaam op het cement met zijn gekneusde en gezwollen handen. Zijn lul roerde zich, en hij plaste in de richting van de plas die naar de afvoer liep. Die afgebakende, scherpe kaak verslapte eindelijk, zijn lange haar viel over zijn gezicht.
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Ik pakte de slang en legde hem in een strakke cirkel terug in zijn hoek en ging naar hem toe. "Ze zullen snel terug zijn om weer met je te neuken," zei ik, mijn stem laag. "Er is geen eten meer voor je. Alleen dat ene stukje Wonder Brood dat je elke morgen krijgt. Dus je kunt het de volgende keer beter opeten." Een rilling kroop over mijn huid. "Ik weet hoe dat is."
Zijn blik vernauwde zich naar mij. Waarom zou hij iets geloven van wat ik zei? Maar ik wilde dat hij dat deed. Hij kon niet veel ouder zijn dan ik, maar hij was in één nacht ouder geworden, sinds ze hem vertelden dat zijn vader gestorven was. Hij bleef stil, stil. Zoals ik die eerste weken.
Een brandende lamp in de gang scheen door het kleine raampje in de stalen deur. Ik nam zijn sterke gelaatstrekken in me op. Gespierd en mager, hij was dunner geworden sinds ze hem hier brachten. Nee, hij was niet het knoestige en gespierde type motorrijder met een houding die ik zo goed kende. Een harde snede in zijn kaak, een lichte inkeping in zijn kin, zichtbare jukbeenderen, en de holtes eronder. Zijn volle lange lippen hadden een sensuele welving. Hij was knap.
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