The world around him was black as night. Water seeped through his shoes and made his socks soggy, and he sighed.

   He rubbed his head, feeling the soft bandage that was put there. He shivered, wondering why everything was so dark.

   Then something appeared in front of him, and he jerked reflexively. Stone stairs cascaded up to the house where he, and Dylan, and Momma, and Alex lived. The place sat archaically against the horizon, nearly blocking the setting sun behind it.

   He looked up. The sky above him was blue as could be. His gaze drifted to the motel, and what he saw chilled him to the bone.

   Mother was there, holding Alex's shotgun in her hand. Aiming it at Joyce Summers, the woman that had babysat him and his brother for as long as he could remember. "Mother!?"

   To her left was Keith, and to her right was Alex. None of them seemed to hear Norman's call, so he decided, despite the hair raising on his neck, that he would go down there to see what would happen.

   He had dreamed about this day before, but it always seemed as though he would fall from the sky the way he looked down on them.

   As he got closer, the scene became clearer. Another thing that was odd to him, as, in times before, this dream was always really blurred or fuzzy. When he watched it play out before him, he suddenly wished it was still that way.

   Mother was still aiming the shotgun at Joyce. Her lips moved, but the voice was soundless and uncanny. The shot fired.

   The bullet penetrated Joyce's throat, and blood splattered across Mother's blue and white dress. He cried out, but no one seemed to hear him. He tried to run towards her, to keep her from what she was doing, but his feet were as heavy as if he was trying to run through water. "Mother!? What are you doing!? She's your friend!" still, it appeared as though she didn't hear him. He struggled to try to walk again, before he watched his her small hands latch themselves to Joyce's throat.

   The little boy began to cry. She wasn't a terrible person, was she? She didn't kill Joyce...did she?

   His ears rang with the words she had whispered to Alex the night after, "If I hadn't have showed up with that gun...if I had just listened to you....I killed Joyce." He never managed to hear the rest, but screamed at the scene before him. Mother's hands were becoming increasingly stained with blood the harder she squeezed. He watched it seep up through her fingers and pour thickly over her hands as Joyce sputtered on the ground below her.

   "STOP!"

   She glanced in his direction with a seductive smile, then pulled her hands away from Joyce's throat. The woman had finally stopped breathing. Her lips were blue, but her throat was red.

   He closed his eyes tight. It was like a terrifying flash when he opened them, and she was still standing there, smiling pleasurably at him. His eyes ran over her body...her hair was curled and a little shorter than usual...her lips, coated with lipstick as red as...her dress, the blue-and-white floral that she wore, the one he thought was so beautiful...covered in that thick, red liquid that had come from the body of Joyce Summers. That was Joyce's blood. Joyce had been their friend. Now she was dead.

   Her hands wrapped around his throat with such force that his head hit the black wall. He cried out and reached for the bandage, but instead found a pool of blood when he pulled away. "Mother!"

   She got closer to him. Whispered in his ear, "You nasty little eavesdropper. You were supposed to be in bed. Weren't supposed to hear that, were you?" She pulled away, glaring daggers through his being. "I don't want to do this, Norman, but I don't really have any choice now, do I?"

   "Mother, please, don't--" his plea was cut off. Her fingers laced around his neck.

   ~

   ~

   ~

   ~

     Norman's chest rose and fell rapidly as he gasped for breath. His blue eyes spun wildly around the room. It was vacant, excluding himself. He shot up from the bed. Ran to the bathroom. Someone called from downstairs, yet he could vagely make out what they were saying.

   He was met with tousled, brunette hair, bulging blue eyes, and his own lanky, teenaged figure. Things had changed since he last had that dream.

   When he got back to his room, he glanced at the calander. Twelve years today. A lot had changed.

   "Norman, are you coming?" His brother's voice permeated the seemingly-thick air.

   "Yeah," he called out. His voice was raspy. Norman cleared his throat, then spoke again, "Yeah, I'm coming," he said, cursing himself. If he didn't leave now, then his mother would have to give him a ride to school, and he really wasn't in the mood for that.

   He used the bathroom and changed clothes in a few minutes, then trodded downstairs to see that his mother was cooking breakfast.

   Her blue eyes sparkled as a gleeful smile spread across her face. "Hey, Honey, are you gonna have some eggs or something--"

   "No thanks, I gotta go, you know, don't want to be late--"

   "I can drop you off at school if you're not ready."

   He shook his head, smiling with embarrassment. "It's fine, Mom, really, I'd better go with Dylan."

   He was ashamed for a moment, when, upon hearing his rejection, his mother seemed slightly crestfallen. She stood there, in the kitchen, holding a plate of bacon and eggs that had so far gone untouched.

   "Well...I guess I'll take some bacon with me," he said, waving a hand as he spoke.

   Her eyes got a little brighter. "Okay," she limped over to the cabinet, retrieved some tin foil, and started to wrap the bacon as quickly as she could manage. "There you go." She kissed him on the cheek. "Bye-bye, Honey, I'll see you later!"

   The two said their goodbyes, and Norman gave a sigh as he sat in the front of Dylan's truck, finally leaving that old, bloodstained house.