Felicite Found by Julia King

go unnoticed. Up and up he traveled until he made it to the top floor high above the grounds of the yard—the perfect escape route for him.
    Shuffling into one of the many rooms, he made his way to the window. Without thought, he stripped off his bloodstained coat and white button-up shirt until his pale chest shown bare. His face bore dried blood that had drizzled down his chin to his neck. Deep, guttural breaths gushed from his mouth until he felt light-headed. His heart pumped hard drawing blood heavy into his balled up fists.
    Moisture rushed from his eyes, making dried blood streak down his chest. He wiped hard at his face, madness taking over his ability to function rationally. Treading toward the shuttered window felt like a thousand years even though it only took a few seconds.
    The maddening voice returned; it was lathered with laughing malice.
    Do it. It is the only way you can be rid of me. Open the window and jump .
    “What do you think I’m trying to do?” he screamed, heat sweeping down his face to his toes. It stung him until his body was engulfed in a storm of hellish fire.
    I do not think you can do it. Prove you can.
    The man threw open the window, leaving his bloodied fingerprints on its white paint. A chill rushed in, cooling his body temperature until goose bumps rose in high peaks over his flesh. His legs wobbled as he stepped onto the window’s edge. His expensive black shoes forced some loose pebbles to plummet into the wide expanse; they dropped, gaining speed until they shattered into dust at reaching the pavement below.
    Jump and pay for your sins , the voice shrieked into his ear.
    “I did nothing . . . I did nothing to you,” he stammered, his voice strained. His hands shook until his whole body followed suit. “I did nothing.”
    And then he kicked off of the ledge with his arms stretched out wide like a plane. As the slow motion of air rushed past his face, his son’s precious two-year-old chubby face flashed into his mind. A stabbing pain exploded in his broken heart, and then it ceased beating when he crashed onto the pavement with puffs of dirt rising into the air. He was dead, blood pooled around his lifeless head, eyes still open with a vision of horror caught in their depths.
                 
    Sweat poured from Ém’s skin as she screamed, being completely unaware of where she was at the moment. She bounded up with a start in the warm bed. Branches of lightning-filled pain shot through her side, making her groan until moisture spotted her vision.
    The first thing she could think of was a name: Pierre. Without willing her voice to do so, she shouted out the name. Loud.
    The door to the room screeched open, and a light flashed on with the flick of a switch on the wall. She had to close her eyes to adjust to the light that filtered into the room. A woman, she remembered her name: Hélène. The woman—Pierre’s mother padded to her side.
    “Ém, what’s wrong?” Her words came out in a rush, and her face became pale—grave.
    “Where is Pierre?” Ém cried as the nightmare seared hot and tangible into her mind. All she wanted to do was transport herself into the dream before he jumped—save him, keep him from killing himself. Why had she dreamed something so horrible? So disturbing? Perhaps it came on because she had tried to kill herself. She rubbed at her temples ferociously until her fingers felt numb.
    Hélène’s voice chimed sweetly into her mind, answering her question. “He went to school. I promise he’ll be back.” Hélène grabbed the blanket laying wound in knots at the foot of the bed. She proceeded to soak up the sweat and tears mounting on Ém’s face and neck with its fabric. Sitting down, Hélène draped her arm over the girl’s shoulder while stroking the blond locks of hair that fell parallel with her arm. “Are you okay?”
    “I had a dream . . .” Sniffle. “A really bad, bad dream.”
    “I’m here. I’m here. It was only a