Chapter 18 Swallowing Freddy Kruger
Swallowing Freddy Kruger
The sterile silence of the night is broken only by the soft crackle of my labored breaths.
Strep throat. I’ve been out of school for a week and I’ve only gotten worse.
Here, in the room that Jean and David allocated to me—the charity case, the project—I lie in a feverish haze.
I’m their good deed to flaunt, but here I am, left to nurse myself back to health because, let’s face it, playing the nursemaid doesn’t fit into their nine-to-five.
Jean means well, I guess, offering her help. But I pushed it away, telling her I could manage. I didn’t want them hovering, didn’t want them seeing me weak. So, they sleep, probably dreaming of charity galas and tax deductions, while I lie here counting seconds in pain.
But now, in the middle of the night, I’m tempted to reach for my phone to call or text her. To do... I don’t know what. Be with me?
I dismiss the thought quicker than it forms.
My throat hurts so bad, it feels like Freddy Krueger is in there, raking along the inside of my jugular with his razor gloves over and over again. I’m so tired, but the aches in my body make it impossible to fall asleep.
My hair is a sweaty mess, and I look like death reheated. Pale skin, chapped rough lips, and my eyes are red-rimmed. If I wasn’t feeling like such crap, I’d revel in the fact I resemble the monster I am on the inside for once.
Usually the night brings me comfort, but I feel trapped and isolated in pain that stretches minutes into hours.
At least David has given me a wide berth, since he can’t afford to get sick while he’s on a big project for work. Thank fuck for that, at least.
I shiver, pulling the covers tighter as I glance at the digital clock, its neon blue numbers frozen in place. I try to swallow, but each attempt is more painful than the last.
I already feel like a freak every day of my life. Being sick and isolated only dumps on top of that feeling. At least going to school and studying allows me to hide in the fold, play pretend that I’m like everyone else.
And then, as if summoned by my darkest thoughts, there’s a faint scratching, a sound that’s become a nocturnal comfort. Shadow. The floorboards creak, the soft whisper of darkness slides across the room, and the air shifts.
He doesn’t speak, but his form coalesces at the edge of my bed.
An emotional wave of relief sweeps through me. I reach out for him like a child. His massive, clawed hand wraps around mine. I sigh and close my eyes.
I instantly feel better.
"You are ill," he rumbles.
"Strep throat," I croak out.
I don’t know if he knows what that is. Do monsters get sick? I don’t have the energy or the voice to ask him.
Even though his misty white eyes lack irises or pupils, they search mine. "What do you need?"
I swallow again and it only infuriates Freddy Krueger who claws at my throat with extreme prejudice.
I can’t tell him what I need. Even if I could get my voice to work, my brain won’t work beyond the neon flashing sign pain being broadcasted to every cell in my body.
Shadow swipes his palm along my sweat-soaked forehead, smoothing my hair back.
A moan of contentment comes out of me as I lean into it. In the glow of the moonlight, his tendrils—darker than the space between stars—reach out. They brush against my forehead, an ethereal caress that cools the fever from my skin.
Usually, he is warm to the touch, so I wonder if he can control his body temperature at will. Again, I don’t have the strength or ability to ask.
"I will return," he promises.
With that, he dissipates out my partially open window.
Shadow’s absence, though brief, hits like withdrawal—shaky, raw, and sudden. I didn’t know how much I’d needed him until he was gone. Time slows painfully again, until I’m almost convinced it’s stopped.
I toss and turn, seeking any relief, but it’s no use. My room is now a prison.
Later, the window creaks and a breeze carries him back in. Shadow materializes, in his hands, a treasure trove of human remedies: a bottle of amber liquid—cough syrup—a box of pills, and a steaming mug that smells of mint and honey.
Maybe I’ve slipped into the hallucination phase—where monsters bring you cough syrup and broken girls get to rest.
Shadow moves with a cautious grace, setting the items on my nightstand. "For pain," he says, pushing the pills toward me, along with a glass of water. "And your throat," he adds, handing me the mug.
I eye the medicine warily, the independent part of me screaming to refuse, to not show weakness. I don’t need anybody. I don’t need his help.
But damn if I don’t want it.
Agony wins over pride. With trembling hands I take the pills, the water washing down the bitterness. With each careful sip of tea, Freddy Krueger is drowned out.
Shadow watches, his head cocked, as if learning. This must be new for him, caring for a human.
I want to thank him, but the words are expensive, and I’ve spent too much already. Instead, I lean back, allowing the soothing warmth of the tea to spread through me. It somehow makes me feel cooler instead of more feverish.
With a motion that’s almost tender, he reaches out. He strokes my back in a rhythmic motion. Achy muscles uncoil, and my eyes flutter shut. This is the first true relief I’ve felt in days.
"Rest now," he murmurs.
And I do, my breaths evening out, the tension melting away under his touch.
Even in dreams, he never leaves me. A shade in the mist. My sentinel. My secret.
It will always be us. And I sleep easier knowing nothing can tear us apart from each other.
I whimper. "No. No, you can’t leave me."
My hands grab for Shadow again, but now he’s at the foot of the bed. I don’t even care that I’m sweaty, covered in my own desire, and half dressed. Panic pours into my brain like a million angry red ants, each one biting and stinging.
He said he won’t come back with such finality that I can’t even breathe or think through the blind fear.
"I can’t protect you, and this cannot ever happen again," he says, and I detect mournful regret.
"Because you don’t love me?" I throw the words like knives, hoping one might stick deep enough to keep him here.
I’m desperate to get him to stay, but I feel him slipping through my fingers all the faster.
Shadow doesn’t answer. His indifference is so much worse than if he yelled.
I’m losing him.
"You can’t leave me again," I insist.
"I’m sorry I failed you so much. It won’t happen again."
He disappears under the bed just as I scramble after him. But for the thousandth time, I’m too late. My fists pound against the ground as a flood of tears wrenches straight from my heart. "No, no, don’t leave me. You said you’d always be with me."
He doesn’t come back, but I continue to lay there on the floor, dehydrated, tearstained with bruised fists and an empty black heart.
Yet again, Evie ruins her own life in spectacular fucking fashion—again.