Hello, readers!
This was a fun one. I really delved a little deeper into Nichole's mental state and fleshed out the scenes to my liking. Hopefully, it also improves the experience for you lovely readers! Don't be afraid to let me know if there's anything I'm missing or if you see something wrong. I like constructive criticism as much as I love praise!
This chapter has been updated as of 10/1/2016.
~ Crayola
Chapter Twenty-One
The Deepest Scars
Dreams are weird. Depending on the atmosphere and tone it could be a happy dream or a complete nightmare. I've had some before that might have been scary, but because my subconscious didn't intend for them to be that way, they weren't.
I've had dreams that should have been innocent enough—a family dinner interrupted by a strange light—but I had woken up terrified out of my mind for no apparent reason.
Other dreams that should have been terrifying, like running away from an intruder, were only intense, like watching a crime thriller movie. Sometimes, I didn't even participate in my dreams. Instead, I'd take on the role of a bystander in my own mind.
The intent of my dreams now was definitely horror.
Waking up from a nightmare isn't like what you see in the movies, either. The closest thing to the movies is night terrors, but you don't wake up from a night terror. All you do is scream and scream and no one can comfort or wake you—you're trapped there in your own mind, tormented, until it goes away or until another one takes its place. The only consolation is that you're not supposed to remember a night terror.
Usually, you remember nightmares.
Maybe not the whole thing, but enough of it. Your only hope is that it fades away once you've awoken, giving you even the smallest bit of relief.
Until you fall back asleep.
All I wanted was to get some sleep before the big press conference. To be alert when I was being bombarded with questions.
Before heading to bed, I took some of the pills that the doctors had given me. Not only did they help assuage some of my anxiety, but it helped me relax. There weren't many comfortable positions for me to sleep in with my legs still mending. If I could have, I wouldn't have slept at all to avoid the nightmares. However, killing myself through lack of sleep wasn't an option.
When I was little, I would always sleep with a nightlight. Once again I was considering it, but I didn't want to fall back on that old crutch. Not when I hadn't used one in years.
What was a nightmare compared to the real thing, anyway?
*:・゚✧
I could hear squealing coming from the dark. It grew louder and louder until it was right in my ear. Right on top of me.
There's something wrong.
The ship had been destroyed, all the eggs killed and the queen dead. There wasn't anything for me to be afraid of anymore.
Right?
Then why did it feel like that wasn't true? Why was I staring at a thin, looming shadow just at the edge of my bed? It wouldn't come into focus, but it was there all the same. A dark, blurry shadow that hissed. I tried to open my mouth to scream, tried to recoil to the wall where I could protect myself, but my body wouldn't move.
My bed was beneath me. I could feel it, but my mind wasn't convinced it was real.
I'd thought for sure that I was awake. I was in my room—the door was right there, a sliver of light seeping out from the crack over the floor.
Then why can't I move?
Inside my ribcage, my heart was beating a mile a minute, constricting my chest like a vice. At least the dream didn't last much longer. I was finally able to blink, and by the time I opened my eyes again, the phantasm was gone. The shadows in my room started to take shape—my dresser and computer desk, my varsity jacket hanging from the doorknob, and the pile of stuffed animals in the corner next to my closet.
Finally able to move, I slid closer to the wall and further from the edge of my bed, eyes darting around my room to look for more danger. Fear still held me captive as I searched for the drone that had invaded my room, but there was nothing.
When I lifted my hand to brush the hair from my face, my fingers came away wet. I rubbed the tears from my eyes and focused on gaining control of my breathing.
The lights. I needed to turn on the lights.
How? I can't leave my bed—it's safe in my bed.
I spread out on my stomach and groped around until I felt the handle of one of my crutches. My heart was still racing and I felt like turning on the lights was life or death. All I could think was that I should have put on a stupid night light.
Maybe I could throw something at the light switch. All I had around me was the one pillow I slept on and then my alarm clock. Out of options, I took my crutches again. It looked like I was going to have to leave my bed, leave the safety and warmth and security. I'd always been under the belief that you were safe so long as you had blankets on and were fully on the bed.
It was all ridiculous. There was nothing in my room except my own belongings. And yet, I still expected something to leap out and attack me at a moment's notice. I was the only living thing in the room! I had nothing to worry about.
Taking a deep breath, I tucked my arms under the crutches and hobbled across the room. I slapped the switch and illuminated every last corner in my room.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
After I swallowed the lump in my throat, I leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor, one hand covering my face. For a few minutes, I sat like that, taking deep breaths and trying not to cry. The nightmare-induced tears had stopped, at least, and I was able to wipe the last traces away.
A scratching at the door startled me and I managed to clamp my mouth shut to keep from screaming. I held my hands over my mouth, eyes closed, and waited.
The scratching came again and my heart jumped into my throat. Slowly, through trembling shoulders and shaky knees, I lowered my hands and leaned forward enough to look at the door. On the other side, a shadow paced back and forth.
There was something there.
My breath refused to catch and I clutched at my crutch, pulling it up and against me. It was a pretty solid piece of metal—I should be able to use it.
However, before I could work up the courage to open it up and smack whatever was on the other side with my crutch, the scratching started again and was followed by a familiar whining. Then, an even more familiar sniffing.
Stupid dog!
I was finally able to relax and I pulled myself up to turn the knob. Our black lab didn't let the door finish opening before he was rushing in. "Shh, Atlas, you're going to wake up the whole house."
Ignoring me, Atlas paced my room for several minutes with his nose glued to the ground. He wasn't quiet about it, so I was forced to shut my bedroom door so he wouldn't wake anyone. No matter what I did to try and bring him back to my side, he paced and searched until he seemed satisfied.
"Find anything, boy?" I cooed, my voice subdued. Even though the last vestiges of the nightmare had receded into the deep recesses of my mind, I couldn't help my wandering eyes.
He bounded up and stood in front of me, his whole body shaking with the vigorous way he wagged his tail. He knew better than to try to jump on me and instead set a single paw atop my knee and licked at my hand. I sighed and gave him the pats he was looking for and rubbed his floppy ears until he stopped whining and sat down.
The effect his presence had was instantaneous. Fear seeped out of my body and I watched him as he leaned into my hand and panted, looking up at me with his dark eyes, as if asking if I was okay.
"It's alright boy. Only a dream," I murmured.
I continued to pet and murmur nonsense to my knight in shining fur, allowing myself time to calm down. Atlas wasn't the most well-behaved dog, but he seemed to have realized enough to know that I needed him to be still. The occasional warm, slobbery kiss on my hand was not unwelcome, either. He usually slept in his kennel in the living room, kept open so he could leave in case he needed a drink.
Had I been making that much noise while I was dreaming that he would come to see me?
My dog reared back and put his second paw on my lap and shuffled forward so he could set his head down over his paws. I still couldn't bring a smile to my face, but at least I was no longer terrified.
The adrenaline rush ebbed and exhaustion set back in. I pushed Atlas back to the floor and hobbled back to bed, leaving the light on. He followed after me, his tail wagging as if to reassure me. Now that I wasn't half asleep and running from hallucinations, it was easier to crawl into bed than it had been to crawl out of it.
It took a lot of grunting and hissing in pain, but I managed to twist into a position I could sleep in and I flopped down onto my pillow. I had intentionally left my overhead lights on to help me sleep like I was a child afraid of the dark.
Nichole, the girl who fought through a hive of vicious, parasitic aliens couldn't sleep without the lights on in her room.
At least Wolf wasn't there to see me. I could already imagine that disdainful way he'd turn his head, the way he'd grumble. Well screw him, he was trained to go through this kind of shit. I was going to have to deal with this the way humans dealt with it.
Years of therapy.
I turned my head away from my pillow to keep from suffocating and was met with the wide, flat tongue belonging to my dog. Groaning, I turned away with a jerk and pushed his muzzle away from my face. "Atlas, oh my god."
He huffed in response and I felt the bed sag as he leaped onto it. Then he buried his nose in my hair and whuffed around, tangling the strands and covering my head with slobber.
"Atlas," I whined, turning my head and pushing furiously on his nose.
Finally, he pulled back and then pawed at my shoulder. I sighed and rolled the best I could onto my side and laid my hand on his ribs. "If you want to sleep in my bed you're going to have to behave."
Atlas cocked his head to the side and clicked his teeth together. I watched him a moment, then pushed myself closer to the wall to allow him more space to spread out. I had a double-size bed so there wasn't a whole lot of room, but at least enough that the two of us should have been able to find comfort. I pat the space next to me and Atlas shimmied forward until he could lay his head on the pillow, then he glanced at me.
"It's alright, boy. . .just for tonight," I said, pausing long enough to yawn.
There was a moment where I fought to yank the comforter out from under the fat lard, but I finally managed to pull enough free to cover myself and settled in for a hard night.
Atlas let out a sigh of content and I put my arm around his shoulders, burying my face in his neck. He smelled like dirt and his musty blanket, but it didn't bother me. Even when we gave him baths he never quite smelled clean.
I was much more relaxed lying there with something fuzzy and warm and alive right there with me. Now I could tell myself that if anything were to come and attack me, Atlas would be the first to know. He would be the first alarm to start going off. Maybe he wouldn't be able to protect me, but at least he would be able to give me some warning.
There wasn't much I could do for myself, either. Not in my condition.
But fuck it. If I could, I'd go down swinging. Not taken in my sleep.
Occasionally the house made sounds, or the wind hit the walls wrong, and every time it brought me further from sleep. I'd cling harder to Atlas and clench my eyes shut.
Then he'd turn his head enough to lick my face and I'd relax again.
Eventually, I fell asleep. Throughout the night, nightmares continued to wake me up. Each time it happened, I groped blindly until I felt Atlas' fur at my fingertips, curled up in the crook of my legs, acting as a support. He would lick my hand in response, and then I'd bury myself further under my comforter. Happened almost every hour, like clockwork.
It was still better sleep than anything I'd had since coming home.
*:・゚✧
Fingers gripped my arm. They tugged and shook at me without urgency. I tried to take my arm back, but the fingers wouldn't relent. I just needed a little more rest—surely Wolf could begrudge me even the smallest amount of shut-eye after . . . .
"Sweetie?"
That wasn't Wolf.
I cracked open one eye and then the next before propping my torso up on my arms to look around. The familiar weight of Atlas at my side was gone, and I fought to blink away the last vestiges of sleep from my vision.
"Honey it's Mom." She moved her hand from my arm to my shoulder. "You're alright. You were having a bad dream, sweetie."
Finally, I managed to clear my sight and found myself staring at my mother. She was red-faced and failing to hide the tears she'd shed. I glanced around one last time, then wiped away some drool from the corner of my mouth and rubbed my face to try and look presentable. Mom waited silently, smoothing my hair back, as I chased away the last traces of my dream.
"I didn't mean to startle you," she said, her face taut with worry.
"Sorry," I muttered. I sat back and glanced at the clock on my nightstand with squinted eyes.
Seven in the morning. Two hours until the conference. I wondered if there was any way for me to weasel out of going, but there probably wasn't.
"Oh baby I can't stand to see you like this," she wailed, pulling me into an embrace. Her voice was heavy like she'd been holding back from crying. I grunted and shifted into a more comfortable position. "There has to be something I can do to help."
The hopelessness in her voice brought on a fresh wave of emotions. "What do you mean?"
"You were screaming—I didn't know what to do. . .what I should do."
I inhaled deeply and pulled away from her so I could sit up on my own. "Just being home is enough. I'll be okay."
Liar.
"I don't even remember. Where's Atlas?" I asked in an attempt to change the subject.
Mom pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled. "He ran outside when I opened your door. Did he sleep in here all night?"
"Most of it. That okay?" I knew it would be, but for some reason, I asked anyway.
"Of course, sweetie. He can sleep in here as long as you need him to." She fussed over my stray locks some more and I shooed her away with an errant wave of my hand. "Did you sleep better with him in here?"
I was glad she had yet to mention the light. It was turned off now, though, so she had to have noticed it. "I guess, maybe a little."
"Then yeah, it's okay if Atlas sleeps in here."
After a moment I pulled further away from her. There was a time when her loving embrace was all it took to make me feel better, but this wasn't a scraped knee or some mean words from a friend that was causing me distress. "I should get up and shower and get dressed . . . do we have to drive out there or will the agents come and get us?"
My mom kissed the top of my head and then stood up. "We're going to follow them out to the town hall when they get here a little after eight." When I didn't immediately respond, she sighed and smiled at me. "I'm sure we don't have to go if you really don't want to."
Yeah, right. I wish. "I'm fine. Hand me my crutches, please?"
After giving me what I asked for, Mom moved to watch from my door and supervise. I took a few seconds to stretch and yawn, then I stood up with the help of the crutches. My legs were stiff and sore, but they cooperated for the most part. I tried my best to ignore her stare as I wandered about my room, picking out clothes that would keep me warm and still make me look classy for my big TV debut. The longer the silence dragged on, though, the more irritated I started to feel. A heat rose to my cheeks and I finally snapped.
"What, Mom?" I demanded, a little harsher than had been my intention.
Though I wasn't looking directly at her, I could see how she recoiled and it made me hate myself even more. "Nothing. I just wanted to stay nearby in case you needed some help."
No matter how much I tried, I couldn't keep the venom from lacing my words. "Well, I don't. My legs are broken, not paralyzed." I sighed and rubbed my face. "I'll call you if I need anything, okay? I don't need you to hover over me."
Her hands fluttered to her chest and she looked ready to reprimand my attitude. I braced myself for the lecture, but instead, her shoulders slumped in defeat and her hands swung limply at her sides.
"I'm sorry sweetie. Just holler if you need me," she said, turning to leave.
I watched her go, regret knotting my stomach, then I sighed and slumped back onto my bed, hand covering my face. She wasn't the target of my scorn, only a convenient outlet. If I was going to keep from isolating myself from my family, I was going to have to watch my temper.
After a moment of reflection, I vowed to apologize later and finished readying my outfit before heading to the bathroom.
Even with crutches, stairs were difficult, but I could at least move across the hall with ease. I stopped at the top of the steps to look down to the living room. Mom had already made it and was sitting on the couch with Dad.
For a moment, I contemplated going down and apologizing right then, but I didn't want to struggle to navigate the staircase.
Later, for sure.
Alan poked his head out of his room as I passed. "You need help?" he asked meekly.
"No, thanks bud," I muttered. He shrugged and ducked back inside.
Kristie was nowhere to be seen, probably locked away in her room for the foreseeable future, grounded until she was 21. I hadn't talked to her at all since coming home.
My parents had bought a shower helper for me to sit on so I could bathe, though I tried to stand for as long as I could before giving in. I had to keep the incision site clean at all times, so I spent a lot of my shower doing just that. It was a pain in the ass because it was still kind of sore and tender, but they had already taken out the sutures before I'd left the hospital.
It was better than adding an unnecessary infection and sepsis to the list of shit that was wrong with me, though.
The healing was coming along, though; my legs weren't so swollen and bruised.
Dressing was the easiest part since I only had to stand in order to put on my pants. Everything else I could do while seated.
I put on my nicest turtleneck shirt—black with dark gray stripes—and broke out my dressiest winter jacket—a purple coat with shiny buttons and large cuffs. I was just going to wear whatever shoes I had that would be comfortable. Heels and broken legs didn't really go together.
When I was all done, I hobbled once again to the top of the stairs and stared down. The crutches just made it harder, usually, so instead of trying to maneuver my way down with them, I just slid them along the steps until they hit the floor at the bottom. I winced at the clatter of sound they created and waited for my parents.
"Nichole? Are you alright?" Mom called. A chair in the kitchen scraped against the tile. Dad made it, first, since he'd just ben sitting on the couch. Mom followed a few paces behind him, looking worried, frightened even. Both of them relaxed when they realized I wasn't in any danger.
"Yeah, just . . . coming down the stairs," I answered.
Forcing air out between my lips, I grabbed the railing and started the descent into the living room landing.
Dad moved to the bottom step and asked, "Do you need help?"
"No, Dad. Might just take me a second."
Nodding, he returned to the couch but didn't take a seat. Mom ducked close enough to grab my crutches so I wouldn't trip on them. I thanked her and managed not to roll my eyes, though the urge was there, strong and ever-present.
They're just trying to help, I told myself.
When I made it down, she handed them to me promptly. "Thanks," I muttered.
The smell of French Toast wafted to my nose and I inhaled the scent. It brightened my mood and I looked up at my mom. "You made French Toast?"
"It's your favorite, right?" she confirmed, beaming.
My brother and sister—Allen and Kristie—were already at the table with plates full of delicious toast. I made haste to the table, sparing a quick glance at Kristie, but she was making a point to ignore me. Well, I wasn't about to let that bother me so I leaned my crutches against the table and took a seat.
"Are you ready for today?" Dad asked.
"I think so."
When he attempted to push my chair into the table, I waved him off and huffed. "I got it!"
He pulled back, hands up, and I felt everyone's eyes on me as I scotched my seat closer so I could eat. I managed it okay when I pushed off the floor with one of my legs, even though it made me wince in pain. Ignoring it, I sat straight and glared at the empty plate Mom had set in front of me.
"See?" I muttered.
My dad sighed and forced a smile at me. "I never doubted you, Nichole."
"Here's some breakfast for my strong baby!" Mom sang, forking two slices of French Toast onto my plate. She pushed the tub of butter and bottle of her homemade syrup close by and I gathered up the silverware that Dad handed me.
It had been years since they'd waited on me like this and I felt my cheeks flush with heat. They were only trying to help, and I understood that, but I wasn't an invalid.
All I wanted was to be treated normally.
To make matters worse, I could sense Kristie's wrathful glare boring into me, as if she was trying to set me on fire with her eyes. Neither of us thought that I deserved this kind of treatment, considering what I'd done to find myself in this situation.
"How are your legs?" Alan asked around a mouthful of toast.
"A little achy, but I haven't needed to take my painkillers yet," I said, buttering up my own toast.
Nodding, my brother swallowed and took a swig of orange juice. "Do you get to stay out of school for a while?"
The question made me chuckle humorlessly. My mouth moved up and down, but in the end, I chose not to answer the question and instead doused my meal in fresh syrup. Alan was using the store-bought bottle my mom kept around, though I couldn't fathom why: there was nothing better than homemade syrup.
However, he wasn't going to let me avoid the question. "How long do you get to miss school?"
"I don't know," I replied, sharper than I'd meant. The tendons in my jaw tensed as I tried to control my emotions.
"I wish I got to skip school," he muttered.
Kristie glanced at him, but I felt her dark eyes fall back to me. She answered in a flat voice. "School's closed for another week."
Alan looked back down at his food. "Oh."
Mom set down a glass of orange juice in front of me and then parked herself in her own chair next to my dad to eat. His position was at the head of the table. He glanced over and flicked my brother's elbow. "Don't eat with your elbows on the table, and stop pestering your sister."
Alan grumbled but did as he was told.
As well fell into silence, I felt like a stranger sitting at that table like this wasn't my house. The tension in the air was palpable and I thought maybe it would be better if I went to eat in my room. Alan might not have known what was going on, how exactly I'd hurt my legs, but everyone else did. Kristie obviously had some sort of beef with me. Maybe she was mad at all the attention and special treatment they were giving me.
That first bite of French Toast hit me like a brick. It tasted like old memories, of laughter we'd shared and a happiness I'd never feel again. I was undeserving of their doting and such a delicious meal, and the only thing I should have been eating was buttered toast and water—prison food, my dad had always joked.
Tears sprang to my eyes before I could try to control myself. I swallowed that first bite like it was made out of lead and slowly lowered my wrists to rest against the table, one in a brace and one not.
Bite after bite I forced myself to take but I couldn't enjoy it, not like I wanted to. I had wanted to sit at the table and eat like we were a family again, but Alan was going on about how unfair it was that my sister and I were allowed to miss school and he wasn't. Kristie wouldn't stop glancing at me every now and again. My parents jumped like loaded springs every time I moved, hyper-aware of me and whatever needs they fabricated to help with.
Though I tried my best to hide them, the tears came without permission. I sniffed quietly and forced my jaw to chew the food I was shoveling in.
"Honey, what's wrong?" Mom asked, her fingertips brushing against my upper arm.
I clenched my eyes shut and wiped my tears on my shoulder. "S'fine," I slurred, ducking my head and forcing large chunks of sodden toast into my mouth.
Now everyone was staring at me.
How could I have thought everything was going to be okay? There were too many emotions roiling inside me; relief, guilt, anger, anguish, and so many more. I had to go out in a little over an hour and listen to some government agent drone on about the incident as if it had been a completely different situation, then field questions. And here I was, unable to even handle breakfast.
"Sweetie," Mom crooned.
My sister stood abruptly and fled the kitchen without a word. I didn't look up from my plate, but my mom shot to her feet, reaching out as if to stop my sibling. "Kristie, what's the matter?"
If she responded, I didn't hear it. I put my hand on my head and attempted to stomach another mouthful of my meal, but a fresh wave of tears was spilling over my cheeks. I sniffled and fought back the sobs, smothering them with food.
"What's wrong with Nichole?" Alan asked.
Dad hushed him and he sank into his chair, pouting. "Finish up so I can take you to school, okay? We'll tell you later."
"It's always later," he mumbled, finishing his glass of juice and scraping up the last traces of syrup onto what remained of his breakfast. A prong on the fork caught the porcelain at the right—or wrong—angle and made a sharp squealing sound.
Instantly, my flight or fight response kicked in and I felt my spine go rigid. I shunted to my feet, much to the protest of my legs, and nearly knocked my chair over in the process. My crutches weren't so lucky, however, and they hit the floor with an awful noise. The kitchen was no longer there, nor were the members of my families.
Which way—where is it coming from—it's too dark—I can't see—
Ebony chitin and silver teeth, a barbed tail arched high over its back—it was waiting, it was somewhere—it had to be—
Mom's voice cut through me and I swung my arm without thinking when she set her hand gingerly down on my shoulder. She let out a surprised gasp and stumbled away from me, almost falling over in the process.
"Baby—baby it's okay!" she insisted.
Everything came back to me within a few nanoseconds, but the damage had already been done. My entire body was trembling, every muscle was tense and ready for a fight as I fought to catch my breath. I hadn't realized it at first, but I was brandishing my fork like a weapon.
I'd lashed out at my own mother with it. My goddamn fork.
Alan was looking at me like I'd sprouted a second head and my dad was too busy checking on Mom to deal with me for the moment. I limped away from her a pace or two and dropped the fork, my other hand flitting up to cover my mouth in disbelief.
My lip quivered as I said, "Mom, I—I didn't—"
"I'm fine, she didn't hit me," she told Dad, pushing him away from her. "Just caught me by surprise, that's all."
The pressure behind my eyes exploded and I broke out in a sob that drove me to my knees.
"I'm—I'm sorry. I'm so—I didn't—"
Mom moved passed Dad and crouched to put her arms around me. Dad stood nearby, but he didn't venture any closer except to pick up the fork I'd dropped and put it back on the table. Alan was on his feet, only understanding that his sister was in anguish about something.
"Is Nichole okay?" he asked.
"She's going to be fine, Alan," my mom said through her own tears. "You're alright, baby girl. Mommy's got you. She knows you didn't mean it, everything's okay, shh . . . shh it's okay, it's okay."
I wasn't sure who she was trying to convince more.
