All I wanted was to stay with her forever. You'd think that wouldn't be too much to ask, wouldn't you? But it must have been, or the gods that hear us, if there are gods at all, are the kind that leave you bleeding and broken while her killer laughs above you and the world melts into hot, angry darkness.
I know I'm dead when I remember I can reach her. Sweat-soaked and shaking, I fumble for my phone. Lock screen, swipe; calls, recent; three rings, she picks up.
"Cass? What is it?" Her voice, thick with sleep, is what finally undoes me. I burst into tears: horrible, gasping sobs that trigger a coughing fit. Twists and lashes of pain fire through my shattered corpse; only hell could hurt this much.
"Oh my God Cass! What's wrong!" Concern. Alarm. I have to respond to this.
"I'm sorry!" I rasp through a throat like acid, "I'm so, so sorry!" It hurts to talk - it hurts to breathe - but I punch through anyway. "I should have been there, I should have stopped her, I should have avenged you! I'm sorry…" My strength gives out and I'm weeping again, furious with my uselessness.
"Cass? What are you talking about?" This makes no sense: how could she have forgotten her own violent death? Unless…
"It was a dream." I whisper, barely able to believe it. Roxanne, the dust eater, our murders. "None of it's real."
"Yeah…" she laughs, relieved, but still a little nervous. "I don't know what you're talking about, dude. You sound pretty out of it. Are you OK?"
"Yeah. I'm sorry. It's this bloody fever, giving me nightmares. And on a school night…" I trail off into wretchedness.
"Hey," her tone is gentle and I can hear her smiling, "It's fine. Do you want to talk about it?" I want to drive to her house, crawl into her bed, sob like a baby while she comforts me, and fall asleep listening to her breathing, but that's not really practical and I've kept her up enough already.
"Nah, it's just nightmares. I'll get over it. You need your sleep."
"I told you," she yawns, "It's fine."
"No, it's not." I say more firmly. "You've got HSC and I'm crook. We both need to rest."
"All right," she doesn't sound convinced, "But take some Panadol and call me in the morning, yeah?"
"I will."
"Cool. 'Night, kitty-cat. Love you!"
"Drowr," I chirrup, hanging up quickly before I start crying again. I take the pills, drink some water, and curl up into a damp, shivery ball under my doona, trying not to think about my dream. It had felt real, so real, way more real than I'm feeling right now, and I know it's there inside me, waiting to bubble up again. Somewhere along the way, that Queen song I've always hated starts playing in my head. I run from it, into the fog that's building in my mind, and it turns out the gods are just after all because ishe's/i there and I am ready, yes, I am ready for this, and I'll be damned if I don't get her this time.
When I next I awaken I know I'm in the real world. The house is quiet - everyone must have gone to school or work - and the clock on my bedside table reads 8:25 AM. I lie in bed for a while, feeling like a dishrag, before getting up to pee.
Afterwards, I rest against the sink, staring into the bathroom mirror. I'm wearing the Souths jersey and boxers I went to bed in two days ago. My short, gingery hair is matted with sweat. Freckles stick out like acne against my pallid skin, and my eyes are red-rimmed, watery, and hazel. I look like shit; it's calming.
Suddenly my phone rings, reminding me of my promise to call my girlfriend. I stumble down the hall and pick up only to find it's my friend and sort-of boss Teresa.
"Oi Cass! You fuckin' dead yet, mate?"
"Yep," I croak. Talking still hurts but not as much as it did. "Funeral's Tuesday. What up?"
"I was digging through the freezer last night and found some chicken soup - homemade, not that canned bullshit - and figured it was God's way of telling me to come check you aren't pulling a sickie. You up for a visit?"
"Sure. When?" A knock on the door is my answer. I open it to reveal Teresa brandishing an ice cream container.
"Fuck, you look awful!" she exclaims as I stand aside to let her in. "What's with this Christmas tree look ya got goin' on? Dressing like that'd make anybody sick!" I grin as she steps inside. Teresa's a Roosters fan, we've been giving each other shit for ages. She heads down the hall to the kitchen while I collapse back on my bed and check Facebook. It's not long before she reappears with a tray.
"Buon appetito, mate," she says, plonking it down beside me. I'm surprised by how hungry I am and tuck in as she tells me how things are going down at the cafe. Apparently I'm the only non-family staff member whose coffee is fit to make gelato with, let alone serve to customers, and they want me back ASAP.
"You were in my dream last night," I say when I'm done eating.
"Ooh!" Her eyes sparkle and she shifts seductively. Teresa's got incredible curves and acres of raven hair, so the effect is impressive. "Was it good?" I blush - it's practically a reflex for me and she knows it - and roll my eyes.
"No. It was the sort of dream where you and your girlfriend are superhuman monster slayers with blonde hair and silver eyes and you're the best one. Then your psycho ex who wants your spot kills you both but it's OK because you-" I break off coughing - "come back to life, turn into a giant monster, and eat her. Then you wander around for a while being attacked by randos - I think one of them might've been Claire - before running into your boss, who kicks your ass in a sword fight, and then you wake up."
Teresa looks at me levelly for a moment before wanting to know if she was one of the slayers.
"Yep."
"So I was blonde."
"Yep."
"You had a dream where I was blonde."
"Yep."
"Jesus Christ! That, right there, is some fucked up bullshit. No wonder you look like death warmed over." She stands up and makes to leave. "I'm getting out of here before you infect me with your crazy germs. I'll be at uni all day. Call me if you need, like, a ride to the mental hospital or something."
"Aye aye boss." I salute as she heads out the door. "Thanks for the soup!" Alone again, I check the clock. 8:47 - there's still time to call. Feeling much lighter, I reach for my phone.