11. The Nightmare
nightmare - n.
1 a frightening or unpleasant dream
2 colloq. a terrifying experience or situation
3 colloq. a haunting or obsessive fear
She's running through the woods again but this time there is someone after her, a man with his fists and his belt and his face half blown away by a hunting rifle. They blunder through thickets, she trips over the roots of dying trees and hears the crackle of snapping twigs and dried leaves under her feet; branches catch at her hair, snagging it, desiccated fingers that scratch her cheeks. Blood on her hands, thick, viscous, dripping down, leaving a bright trail of red across the woodland floor.
No matter how fast she runs, how far, he's behind her and he's always closing in.
But there is something, someone, else out there and if she can find it, reach it, reach him, she'll be safe. She doesn't need rescuing but she wants sanctuary.
She crashes through a wall of branches and leaves and familiar rough hands grab at her and she wakes, sweating, breathing hard, the sound tearing through her airless bedroom. In her nocturnal frenzy the sheets have wrapped themselves around her like a shroud. She unwinds them, kicks herself free, draws her knees up to her chest, rests her forehead against them and breathes deep, trying to ignore the roar in her ears, blood pounding. The walls seem closer, the whole house shrinking around her, squeezing her until there's nothing left. She eases up from the bed, her nightgown clinging damply to her body; she opens a window wider; a thin tendril of freshness curls into the room, fades into the stuffiness; she catches the scent of a cologne that she knows isn't there, can't be there, but she smells it and her stomach roils.
She cut up his clothes, she smashed the damn figurines that he always thought would make everything better, she systematically changed it from it being their house to her house but still he won't leave her alone.
She'd slept beside him in this room for nearly twenty years and she can still feel him there.
She pulls on her dressing gown, pads down the stairs to the kitchen and walks into a dark figure.
'Goddamnit, Boyd, you scared the shit out of me!' Her heart hammers in her chest.
He holds his empty hands low, away from his sides, an automatic gesture to show that he means her no harm - or as though she's a nervy horse he doesn't want to spook into bolting. In the gloom of pre-dawn they face each other. He looks like a stranger, his hair still flattened and the heavy-rimmed glasses masking his eyes in the dim light.
'I'm sorry,' he says eventually.
She moistens her lips, tosses the hair away from her shoulders, then frowns. 'Why are you back so early?'
'They closed down for the night.'
Her eyes have adjusted to the lack of light and she can see the sooty streaks across his face, black and heavy. She didn't hear any sirens in the night but that doesn't mean anything. 'Was it a collapse?'
There's a long silence and she sees him again, the nineteen-year old with the blackened face suddenly haggard before he had smiled. He pulls himself out of something and shakes his head. 'No, one of the pumps broke down is all. Everybody got to go ho- leave early.'
She folds her arms around herself. 'Bet they'll dock your wages for that.'
'I have no doubt.' He takes off the glasses, runs a hand through his hair until it's standing up in every direction. He looks like the person she knows, or at least like the version she has come to know. 'I'm sorry if I disturbed you.'
'You didn't.' It isn't particularly cold but she feels chilly, rubs her arms. 'I couldn't sleep.'
She's aware, very aware, that her nightgown is short and thin and her robe hangs open; he's seen her like that before and she's always thought that it's her own business to look any way she wants to in her own house. And she's never been ashamed or afraid of her own body. But now, even in the obscuring shadows still unbroken by the steely near-light, she feels exposed.
His eyes stay on her face and she thinks he sees far more of her there than if he looked at her body.
'So many things that trouble you, Ava, I know; I have no wish to add to any of that.'
She's become so accustomed to his voice, to hearing his words in her head even when she's away from him that she isn't certain if he's actually spoken. He knows her, certainly knows enough to guess at the things haunt her midnight hours.
'I was going to get some-' She shrugs, not having got that far. 'Something. You want any?'
'Some something?' He smiles slightly. 'That would be nice.'
She flicks on the kitchen light and they both blink against the sudden glare. His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't change focus but he takes her in, all of her. He turns away.