Moore Dreamslave

1. Auflage 2007
ISBN: 978-1-934349-63-2
Verlag: Pink Flamingo Media
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 77 Seiten

'You're not just having a dream, the dream has you.' Is it just a computer game? Or something more sinister? The lonely Alice Underland has always felt physically undesirable. She spends all her spare time surfing the web, playing video games and watching old movies. When a chat line buddy sends her a program to download, she thinks it's just a silly computer game. Soon she discovers that her dreams are becoming too vivid, sexual and terrifying, and her waking life is beginning to echo her dreams in disturbing ways. She changes physically as well, becoming as strong and beautiful as her dream self. She dreams that she has been captured and tortured by three male agents who seek a computer disk. Now she wonders if her computer friend has accidentally placed her in real danger, as cells, chains and sexual abuse become a part of her everyday life. Alice isn't sure if she has been confined in a mental hospital or kidnapped by androgynous demons. Even the sympathetic female therapist who promises to help Alice may have a secret and sinister agenda. Trapped in an endless series of dreams, Alice doesn't know who to trust, or what is real, as her life becomes a downward spiral into hell. Is there any way out?

Autoren/Hrsg.

Moore, Paul

Leseproben

Chapter One The First Dream: Repossession Dakota stood outside the front of the imposing mirrored-glass skyscraper and shivered a little bit, perhaps not entirely from the cold. A glance at the top was a bit dizzying even for a veteran New Yorker like Dakota, and she estimated that the 42nd floor must be near or at the top. I’m supposed to be here, she thought, but why? She knew she had an appointment, and she knew it was extremely important. She had dressed nicely, in a knee-length black skirt and a short-sleeved off-white top that fit her form attractively, with black thigh-high hose. She had her long black hair tied simply back in a ponytail over respectable little gold earrings, but that’s how she usually had it. For the life of her, she could not say what she was here for. But somehow, she knew, it was trouble. Why did everyone seem to look at her like that as she walked in the door? As a pretty young woman of 26, Dakota was not unaccustomed to men checking her out. But there was something especially upsetting about the way the people walking in and out of the building ogled her, like they knew something about her that she didn’t. She approached the security desk. “I’m here to see the Creditor’s Protection Bureau,” she said, though where that came from she didn’t know. One of the three guards, a plump African-American woman, smirked at the other two guards, who were Latino men. They smiled and nodded back to her with a chuckle. “That would be floor 42, ma’am,” she said, with a mocking turn on the last word, like you might say to a very young child. “You just go right on up there. The express elevator to the top is the last on your right.” Dakota ignored the chuckles behind her as she went to the elevator and waited. There was one other woman waiting there, a long-legged young blonde perhaps a few years younger than Dakota. Dakota wanted to ask her if she was going to the same place, and if she knew why they were going there, but when their eyes met, a blush came over the other girl and she looked at the ground, crossing her arms in front of her as if trying to protect something she had already lost. The elevator went quickly to the top, ending with that slightly weightless feeling high-speed elevators give you. The door opened to a short white hall, with hardwood floors. At the end of the hall stood a modernist reception desk, with a glass top and a swooping curved metal front, like the command center of a starship. Ahead of Dakota, the young woman’s shoes clacked slightly on the floor as they walked down the hall. The blonde seemed to know where to go, turning to the left, but Dakota advanced to the desk, and tried to engage the attention of the bored-looking receptionist behind it. The receptionist, a gum-chewing middle-aged woman with glasses, was looking at a computer screen with boredom, clicking away with her mouse. Dakota thought she saw a game of computer solitaire reflected in her glasses. After Dakota stood for a moment and got no attention, she cleared her throat, then spoke. “Excuse me, my name is Dakota England, and I have an appointment but I’m not sure...” Finally, the receptionist turned her annoyed gaze to Dakota, giving her a look that made her feel about two feet tall. “You’re supposed to stand over there in line, with the other girls,” said the receptionist. “When it’s your turn they’ll call you in.” Dakota looked in the direction the secretary was waving. Off to the left of the desk was a sterile-looking waiting area, with no chairs. About ten pretty young women, ranging in age from perhaps eighteen or nineteen to their late twenties, stood in line, with the woman Dakota had boarded the elevator with last. Some were dressed like college students, in jeans and sweatshirts, while others were dressed in business attire. They all looked frightened and distracted. A couple were quietly weeping, tears streaming down their face. A stern-looking security guard stood at their side, keeping them in line. “But could you tell me why I am...” “I can’t help you with that. You’re the person who got yourself into this situation. Just shut up, get in line, and they’ll deal with you when they’re ready.” Dakota flushed with anger and humiliation. She was not used to being spoken to in such a dismissive way. She felt like a naughty high school student (which she had never been) going to see the principal. Normally, she would have reacted with anger to this rude treatment, and lashed out at the rude secretary. But for some reason she felt she was in no position to say anything. Dakota walked over and got behind the woman from the elevator, and tried to stand as if she was doing this by choice. But there was no dignity to be had in the situation. The women were all waiting helplessly for a fate they had no control over. The door swung open, and another security guard, a tall square-jawed woman, yelled out “next!” The curvaceous, freckled redhead jumped slightly at his tone, and paused in front of the door as if trying to find a way not to go in there. But the guard who had been looking over the line, a short, strong, nasty-looking brute with balding hair, barked at her. “Let’s go! Do you think this is the dentist’s office or something?” The redhead advanced through the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The door slammed hard. Whatever was happening behind that door did not happen quickly, and it took a very long time, fifteen or twenty minutes, before they called the next girl in. Dakota wished she had something to read, though she doubted the guard would let her. Meanwhile, boredom and fear battled it out in her consciousness. Underlying it all was impatience with herself. Why am I standing here, letting them treat me like this? she thought. Why don’t I just walk the hell out of here? But even the thought of leaving caused her heart to race in terror, and she knew that she would not have the courage. Suddenly she understood why the other women were crying, though she forced herself not to. When they finally called the woman in front of Dakota, she burst out crying. “Please don’t make me go in there. I’m sorry. Give me another chance.” Dakota felt an incredible anger at the girl. She wanted to slap her, and tell her to shut up, that her little fit wasn’t doing anyone any good. She wanted to tell her to shut up and do what they said, so everyone could just get on with what they were doing. But why am I feeling more anger towards her, thought Dakota, than the people who are doing this to us? As Dakota stood in front of the thick, heavy door, her mouth was dry and her palms grew sweaty and cold. She stared at it, as if she could somehow see through, get a sense of what was going to happen on the other side, but it rejected her stare coldly. Finally, the door opened a bit, and the stern-looking female guard looked out the door. “Next! C’mon, we don’t have all day.” Dakota took a deep breath, and walked in, trying to summon all of her confidence. Somehow she expected to face someone older, more authoritative. Instead, behind a classic wooden desk in the oak-lined office sat a young man, perhaps two or three years younger than Dakota. Behind him stood a teenage boy, an intern holding a few files. In addition to the female guard who let her in, there was another guard, a plump Latino man. There was another door in the back of the room, behind the man in the desk. There also was a rolling laundry hamper, with cloth sides. It was full of clothes, and for a moment, Dakota didn’t understand what it was doing there. Then she noticed that at the top of the pile of laundry was the flowered dress that the college girl in front of her had been wearing. On top of the dress lay her shoes, and a pair of underwear and a bra, which she must have had on. Her heart began racing faster as she thought she saw the clothes belonging to several other women in the basket. The man at the desk was not looking at her. He was filling out papers on his desk, bringing down a heavy stamp on them every now and then. Dakota cleared her throat. “Um, my name is Dakota England and I was told to...” The female guard interrupted her. “Did he ask you a question?” she yelled. “N-no...” “Well, this is how it works from now on. Someone asks you a question, you answer it, fast. If no one asks you a question, you shut up and wait until someone does. Got it?” Dakota nodded, terrified. She didn’t know what else to do, so she just stood there. She crossed one arm across her body and held the other arm, her purse resting from her dangling hand. She felt as if a spotlight was on her, because everyone in the room except the man at the desk was looking at her. She tried to look at the ground, as if nothing was happening. Finally, he looked up, but he did not look at Dakota. He handed the intern some paperwork. “Here’s the papers for 03B5568,” he said. “Make sure they mark her properly. And check her with her number again; the stupid twats always forget a few times. Make sure she gets five if she doesn’t know it.” The intern nodded, and ran out the back door. From the briefly open door, Dakota heard disturbing noises: metal clanking together, a frightening buzz, and possibly the sound of a woman crying in pain. “Now,” said the man at the desk, pulling out a new file, “what do we have here? Dakota England, 26, works as an ad salesperson, grew up in – ooh, East Hampton, a rich bitch. But not anymore, looks like the family business went under....