One was all she needed to see. This is the worst part of her ability; the nice dreams she can deal with, even joke about. The dreams where people get killed, tortured, or otherwise made miserable are the ones that stick with her through the day, the week, for however long until the next nightmare shows it's face.

"Not like this," Felicia answers as she runs a hand over her own face, feeling sick to her stomach all over again and showing it on her face. She can't help but keep saying that. It's like Felicia wants to convince herself this isn't a part of her that she won't be able to figure out because nobody tells her any damn thing. Let this be all on the fog, this weird place, not a facet of what she can do.