(Author's Note: A companion piece is now up and in progress: same chronology, Brittany's perspective. This fanfiction thing is eating my life.)
You almost never remember your dreams. But this one happens over and over and over and sticks to you the mornings after like the stench of smoke in your hair.
In the dream, you're in the hallway. By the lockers. The hallway is gray and tight and small and sweaty and everyone looks at you as they pass as if they're waiting for something to happen, and all at once you turn and Brittany is there, crack, an apparition in bled color that grows painfully bright. She's got a halo like the Madonna in a church painting and it hurts you to look at her. Just like when you're awake.
You tell her that you love her and that you hate her. You hit her and scratch her and cry. She seizes your wrists and her fingers are even longer and thinner and whiter and her eyes too big and too dark, all pupil and no reflection.
Let me go, you cry. The others disappear: you can't tell when, but they're all gone as you look for help.
I love you, she says. I won't let you go.
You're hurting me.
Yes.
You look down and you're naked, alone, and your wrists burn. Suddenly you're wet and you want her so bad you swear you'll die if she doesn't touch you now. She twists you toward the locker and slams your back against the cold metal and fucks you without mercy. Her touch burns; you're crying, but you don't resist—you don't want her to stop. You look into those hard dark eyes and they soften, slowly, until you can't look at her anymore.
At that moment you wake up sweating, still wet, and touch yourself. You think of the time, and of the time, and of the time—it never takes long.
Afterwards, you can fall asleep again. You don't dream.