The dreams don't last, and I can't sleep.
I open my laptop, unsure of where to start, but needing to dig deeper into Cameron's tip about the image of the eye.
One of my dreams is in the room, and I can feel her. She's one of the few dreams who is always welcome.
"You're looking in all the wrong places." she says, kissing my ear as she throws her arms around my neck.
"Don't you think I know that, Jessica?"
I've never told Dean that I still see her. It's not everyday, and not all the time. And she's not a side effect of the drugs. She's been around much longer.
The fire.
The blood, too warm and too real, hitting me in the face.
Her hair wafting in the fumes, brushing over her face as she was hanging from the…
I can still smell it when she's here. The burnt-ness. The smoke.
Jess puts her hand over mine, holding it. "You're thinking about Kevin." she breathes softly.
"Of course I am." I put my other hand over hers. Sometimes it's like she's really here.
Except touching her doesn't hurt my hands….it just hurts everything else.
I don't care if she's not really here. It's enough for me, for now, to just feel like she's here.
"How could I be thinking about anything else?" I respond.
I slowly close the laptop and turn to kiss Jess, but as I do, she's gone, leaving a slight smoky scent behind.
My hands are almost vibrating with my trembling, and I barely stand up on the rocking ship that my motel room floor has become.
Swaying and grabbing at anything that is solid enough to hold me up, I make my way from the desk to the bedside table and find the prescription bottle. After several attempts, I realize I'm shaking too badly to get it open.
The wall remains blessedly solid as I slide down and lean my head against it, still clutching the bottle in my hands. Breathe. That's the key. In and out, deep as you can.
I can only describe my lungs as a pair of bouncy sponges that refuse to take in air. I can sort of hear myself making gurgling noises, the only reward for my attempts at inhaling.
I don't recall ever having panic attacks before the trials...but maybe it's a kind of PTSD. It would make sense.
Finally, the child locked-cap comes off the bottle with a satisfying pop. I rattle a few capsules out into my hand and swallow them dry. It's too many, and it will only make the dreams worse. If I can stand again, maybe it'll be worth it.
After they kick in and the room is still again, I find that my hands are numbed enough to remove my drenched clothing. I strip down, leaving the drippy, torn mess in a corner. I turn the water on again, a little warmer this time. If I wish hard enough, maybe it will wash away Jess' lingering existence. Then again, maybe if I wish hard enough, it won't.
I lean my head on the wall of the shower, the water washing down my back. If I wasn't 6'4'', maybe the water would wash over my head without me bending double.