Okay, this is another short for The Shiver Trilogy by Maggie Stiefvater. I'm so tired right now, I'm not even sure if this came out anything like I wanted. I feel like the emotion was either too much or too random and intense for such a short scene. I do not feel like I captured Sam and Beck in this properly at all. But - ehhhhh. What's a girl for trying?

Enjoy :) Opinions are welcome; ideas for another Memories one shot imore/i than welcome.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own these characters. Maggie Stiefvater, the author of this Trilogy from which Sam and Beck come from, owns these characters.

Sam and Beck: Memories

The room clouded thick with a suffocating mist.

Windows and mirrors and rose patterned tiles fogged.

Mommy's hand holding my wrist, a little too tight.

The tub was filled almost to the brim with water.

There were no toys in it like there usually was.

The steam was pouring off the surface, hissing as the cooler air licked the top.

The heat was so thick.

"Mommy?" I said, "is it bath time?"

No response.

Daddy came in. He was holding something behind his back.

Maybe it was my rubber froggy.

They told me to get in the tub.

No need to undress.

A game?

I don't think I want to play.

Picked up, placed in the tub.

Too hot. Burning hot.

Clothes soaked.

So heavy.

Mommy and Daddy share a look.

I was scared. I don't like this game.

Struggle.

They pinned me down.

It wasn't my toy frog.

Sharp.

Sharp pain.

Sharp cries.

Sharp knife.

Blood.

Stop! Please! Stop!

He won't die.

Why! Stop Mommy! Stop! Please!

Not human.

No! Stop!

"Sam!"

Suddenly the world burst.

"Sam! Wake up!"

My eyes shot open. My head pressed backward as a large, shaky gasp slipped past my lips. I couldn't get enough air.

"Sam! Shhh, Sam. It's okay. Breathe," an unidentified voice whispered loudly above me.

I clutched my wrists against my chest, trying to protect them. Maybe if I pressed them far enough into my chest, they'd be safe.

My head swam as I blinked sweat out of my eyes. Breath was coming easier now, though it was still a work in progress.

"Sam," a freezing hand pushed the hair back from my forehead.

"No," I whined in protest to ceiling. Trembling, I pushed my arms tighter into my chest, restricting my own airflow.

The same freezing hand suddenly grabbed my arms.

Pinning me down.

Sharp.

Sharp pain.

Blood.

"Stop!" I yelled, ripping my arms from the cold grip and desperately trying to get away from them.

"It's not real!" the voice yelled, suddenly sounding so far away. "Sam, calm down! It's Beck! You're okay!"

I froze in my attempted escape, my legs going limp in the sheets that held me captive.

Beck? Sheets?

My vision started to clear. I was in my room. My room in Beck's house.

Still gasping for breath, I blinked and looked towards where I heard him. It was dark, but the moonlight shining through the window was enough to illuminate his figure.

"Beck?" I tried to speak, but it came out as a pathetic croak. He looked warily at me, as if he was uncertain whether or not I was in the here and now. With only a moment's hesitation, however, he once again sat on the edge of my bed and, as gently as he could, grasped my wrists. I flinched at the contact, then, realizing that my grip on myself was so tight that I could barely feel my fingers, I slowly relaxed them.

"Sam, it was just a dream," he said, his voice calm and warm.

And then I started crying. Or rather, I realized I was crying. The tears were silently pouring down my cheeks and onto my bare chest. "I-" I couldn't speak without choking on my own tongue.

Beck leaned towards me and I automatically threw my arms around neck. He wrapped one of his arms around my shoulders and used the other one to press my head against his neck. He held me as I cried, saying nothing. I knew that, later, I'd be embarrassed that I let Beck see me break down, but right now I just needed someone who I knew wouldn't hurt me. I needed a father.

A long while later – I don't know how long exactly; minutes? Hours? – my tears subsided and I pulled away from Beck a bit to let him know I was good.

I was 15 years old and I was still having these dreams.

No. Not dreams. Nightmares.

I angrily rubbed my eyes, frustrated with myself. "Sorry Beck," I mumbled into my chest. I didn't really want to see his expression. I didn't want to see concern or pity.

"It's fine, don't apologize." He sounded like he did any normal day, if not a tad bit quieter.

I stole a quick glimpse at his face. "Thanks." He met my timid glance and the corners of his mouth quirked upwards slightly.

"You're welcome, Sam."

No other words were exchanged that night. I convinced Beck that I was okay by lying back down and closing my eyes. And surprisingly, I was okay. For the moment, at least. I knew that I had something here that I never had when I was a child. A loving family. I had Beck. I had Ulrik. I had Paul.

As long as I keep telling myself that, I know the nightmares can never really get me. That was then, and this is now. When I wake, no matter how many times I had that dream, I always find myself coming to the same conclusion:

"I'm okay."