Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Do you have another account you can use?” The apartment manager gives me a rushed look while unlocking his office.
“Uh,” I fumble. “Yeah, I have another I can try.” At least, I hope there’s enough money in it.
It’s my savings account that I don’t touch except for emergencies.
Sweat is already gathering under my arms. I’ve never had a payment bounce before.
The manager, a skinny man in his forties, caught me in the hall to let me know.
I try to unlock my bank app, but for some reason, the passcode isn’t working. Because of course it isn’t working.
The manager makes it in, collapsing into his chair. He logs into the computer, keys clacking, while I try to get into my app.
Wrong password.
Wrong password, my ass. There should be money in here. My cheeks burn.
The sound of clacking stops, and I look up to see the manager staring blankly at the computer, sitting oddly still.
Is he…okay? When he still doesn’t move, I make a soft sound in my throat.
The man blinks. “Right. Sorry.” There’s more clacking.
I shift. He frowns, looking at the screen. “Yeah, says right here.” When he turns the screen to face me, I see my information, along with late notices for this month and the two months prior.
Two?
“No, I’ve paid.” I feel hot. “I swear I’ve paid; there must be something wrong.”
The man is giving that same blank stare. Then, suddenly, he grabs the trashcan and pukes into it.
I take a step back in shock.
The man wipes his mouth, then clears his throat. “Sorry, where were we?” He gets back to the screen as if nothing happened.
“Are you okay?”
He looks over at me, frowning, looking me up and down. “Yes. Do you have another form of payment?”
“I uh…yes.” Maybe he has a medical condition that I don’t know about and is none of my business. If he says he’s okay, I’ll take his word for it.
I open my app again, this time with a different password.
My thumbs move slowly, stress making my hands shake.
If I can show him my statements, he’ll see that I’ve paid.
This time, I’m able to log in. Relief hits my bloodstream, but it doesn’t last long.
Everything in the app looks different. Did they do an update?
Finally, I locate my account, but there’s only twenty-seven dollars in it. I stare at the numbers, not registering. I just got paid. There’s no way there’s only twenty-seven dollars.
Suddenly, the man is hurling again, hand white-knuckling the edge of the desk.
I put my phone down. “Let me call someone—”
This time when he comes up, the trash is full of dark vomit, and when he wipes his mouth, there’s bright red blood on the back of his hand. I gape, stomach twisting.
“I’m fine.” The man gives me an annoyed look. “I just need your other account.”
“I think you need a doctor.” I glance behind me to see if anyone else is in the office. But when I look back, the blood is gone, and the man is just glaring at me, hands on his keyboard.
Where… What is going on? Something odd tickles at the back of my neck. Something is wrong.
“You’re puking blood. Let me at least call an ambulance.”
“What?” The man looks at me like I’m crazy.
“The blood!” I motion at the trash he puked into. Only…there’s nothing in it. Just white scraps of paper.
I step back, heart racing. What’s going on?
The man stands up. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but all I need is your second form of payment.”
Blinking, I stare at the lack of…anything. No vomit on his hand, no blood in the trash.
“Ma’am.” He looks at me, anger flashing in his eyes, and for a second, they look dark. No, not dark. Pitch black. Like a snake.
My chest squeezes, and hot adrenaline pumps through my legs. I stumble back a step, and the man takes one step toward me. His eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses, falling back against the desk, then hitting the ground and not moving.
I gasp, and at that moment, I hear someone behind me.
“Oh my god.” A man, the guy who’s been trimming the bushes outside of the complex, darts into the room. He runs straight for the manager. “Bill!”
“I… We need to call 911.” But I feel frozen, hands not moving even though I want them to.
The landscaping guy gives me an angry look. “Why was he in here? He was supposed to be going home after he fell and hit his head.” He turns back. “Bill! Wake up.”
Hit his head.
All-consuming dread fills me, icing my veins and holding me still. Hit his head. He hit his head and was puking. Concussion. If he doesn’t get help, he could die.
Hands shaking, I try to dial 911. Only, my phone won’t let me swipe out of my bank app, and it feels like I’m moving through sticky glue. My heart races, and panic crawls up my throat. Why won’t this work?
Time seems to slow. Nothing I try works. My phone won’t even turn off.
Nothing is working. The man needs help, and I can’t get it.
Panic narrows my vision. He needs help. Fuck, work!
“This is all your fault!”
Someone is yelling, but I don’t know who.
“He’s dead!”
I want to smash my hands over my ears. It’s happening again. All over again, and I can’t stop it. Suddenly, my vision blacks out, and it feels like I’m swimming in nothingness. I spin there, dizzy, until the world comes to a stop again.
When I open my eyes, I’m not in the office, and it’s a lot colder. I blink, looking around. White walls surround me, with doors dotted along them. A cool breeze brushes past my arms, and I glance down.
I’m in my blue pajamas.
Confusion muddies the thoughts in my brain. What is going on? Wasn’t I in the office?
The concrete digs into my feet, and I shiver. I’m in my apartment complex, but I’m a building away from my own. I can tell by the dim light from the end of the hall that it’s dark outside.
Slowly, memories trickle in. Eating dinner, drinking wine, then going to bed.
Holy shit. I sleepwalked again.
Residual panic traces through me, and I whirl, racing back to my apartment. Was it all a dream?
My apartment is unlocked. I go inside, slamming the door and locking it. The familiar smells of drywall and sourdough bread greet me.
Fuck. It was a dream.
Trembling, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I down it, then fill it up and immediately drink another, fingers curling against the glass.
Jesus Christ, I thought these were getting better.
My heart still races, the deep fear of the dream lingering. The fear always lingers. Just like the dream always stays the same: someone dies. It was all my fault.
Checking my bank account, I have no issues logging in and find my balance is what I expect. That slows my shaking fingers a little.
No one’s dead. It’s not my fault, and no one’s dead.
The next day, my heart flutters as I round the last flight of stairs to my apartment, bags of groceries in hand.
I die for breath as I juggle around to grab my keys and insert them in the lock.
The key turns easily, almost too easily, but I ignore it as I push into my apartment, immediately dropping the bags.
“Fucking hell,” I puff for breath, then frown. I shouldn’t be breathing this hard from going up stairs. My solution is to try to breathe normally, which just makes my chest feel tight, and I end up gasping for air anyway because my couch and I have had way more dates than my gym and I have.
So I have a thing for rest, and stairs take me out. No big deal. My job doesn’t require me to be an Olympic athlete.
Thank god. I’d quit so fast.
Getting busy, I start putting the groceries away as my breathing evens out. I can’t wait to get out of my slacks and blouse, but I got sorbet, and I don’t want it to melt. Thank god I wore my nice sneakers today, or I definitely would have lost a shoe in the mix.
There’s a soft swish from my bedroom, and I blink, glancing over. For a second, I don’t register what I see: a man with a mask stalking up to me.
A man? No man lives here.
Then, he’s right next to me and is swinging something at my head. A blast of pain explodes under my skin. White light flashes in front of my eyes, but on instinct from way back when, I duck and swing around, stepping into the person.
Our bodies collide, and there’s a grunt.
There’s another strike to my back, but it doesn’t have as much force as the first hit.
All I can see is a faceful of clothes as I protect my eyes, my mind realizing before my body does that I’m in danger.
Slowly, like I’m digging through mud, I reach up to claw at the other person’s eyes.
I don’t fight fair. Connor never taught me to fight fair. He taught me to win. But I’m out of shape. I feel it as I struggle to accomplish anything other than standing upright.
Suddenly, they’re gone, and I stumble forward, catching myself on them. I see the hit before it comes. The man raises an object above me, and I realize too late that I can’t dodge it; my mind moves while my body struggles to catch up.
There’s another hit, and as I crumple, an odd thought crosses my mind: my sorbet is going to melt.
I wake sluggishly. There’s a roaring sound and the ground vibrates. It feels like my head is full of cotton and I can’t form a thought. What’s happening?
The cotton gets thicker, and warmth moves down around me. Then, I feel nothing.
My body is moving. I blink my eyes open, trying to look around, but the light is blinding. I’m moving, and it makes me feel like throwing up. Why is the world moving? Did I get drunk and fall off the bed?
My eyes are closed, but I force them open. At first, all I see is pavement.
Pavement. Not carpet.
Then feet appear beside me. Four of them. I’m…walking?
No, my feet aren’t moving. They’re dragging.
The other people are walking. They’re walking me somewhere. And my arms? I try to connect to my body. My arms are behind my back.
There’s a prickling of something that goes up my back. Something that tells me I should run. But my legs won’t work.
Squinting, I look up.