..::.. Chapter 8 - Late ..::..

I open my eyes. The sun is up. The room has different shadows, like it's afternoon, like I'm late, like I overslept and I feel rested when I shouldn't be on a weekday.

I turn to the clock. I shoot out of bed.

"Fuck."

I tear the sheets off me, as it seems they're woven around me. It takes one, too many tries.

This is a nightmare. The kind where it's your first day of work and you dream of being late. I turn in circles in the middle of the room.

"Fuck!" I run to the bathroom and grab my phone on the way. One text to Jess, the next to my boss.

Excuses upon excuses typed and sent.

Then, I stop. I look in the mirror. Something's different. I stare and stare and—

Was it a dream? Yes. A horrible one.

My God, it felt so real.

I've had these dreams before, extreme ones, where my blood pumps fast, and I wake up sweating and panting, facing a gun, waking up when someone pulls the trigger. It was years of the same dream. It's been months. Now they're back. This dread in me, I want to cry, because I know, I know it will haunt me every night for weeks.

I step up to the mirror over the sink. I lean in. I grab my breasts; pull on the front of my nightdress. There's nothing, but there's something. Bruising marks ghost down my neck, to my chest. Maybe my nails again during my sleep?

I'm showering, and my nipples are sore. I think and think. It's the end of the month. My period is in a couple of days. I sigh. I step into the stream wishing it would wash away these nightmare spells that come every so often.

I'm lightning speed getting dressed. A blouse, heels next. I hop downstairs trying to get the fitted left shoe on. Wet hair. No makeup yet.

I look around the kitchen, the living room. My stomach churns. Is it the trash can again? I threw it out yesterday. But it also smells like ammonia. I check the cabinet; still full of detergent, nothing has spilled.

"Fuck." I'm late. I rush to the door, grab the keys, my satchel and trench coat. I lock the door and make my way to the car, turning it on with the larger key to the right of the chain.

Then, I sit in the car. I don't back out. I don't even move. The windshield has fall leaves on it, sprinkled dust, too. Bird shit is drying out to the top right. I stare and stare at ... nothing.

What's wrong? What's off? I can't leave. I can't put my finger on it.

Then, I'm turning off the car, I'm charging back into the house, flipping back to the left key and opening the door.

I see it.

I fall to my knees. Mouth ajar. Tears burn my eyelids, but I see it, blurred eyes or not. The bullet hole through the back of the couch is obvious.

I crawl there. I put my finger over the patch.

I've put my finger on it.

I look at the carpet. I crawl to that spot. The edges are frayed and cut off. Not a speckle of blood is left.

I sit back and stare at everything. Right here, right under me, that choking man died.

I let out a cry. Then another. This time, it comes from my broken soul.

Last night was real; it wasn't a nightmare I woke up from. He lifted me off the porch, climbed the stairs to my room and tucked me under sheets. He stayed there next to me, caressing my hair, clearing away tears as I cried myself to sleep.

Mom's death wasn't an accident like Dad told me once. They killed her, and they almost killed me.

I sob.

I lie on the floor, over the ghost of a nameless, faceless man who died here. The one I killed last night.

….