Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
BLAIRE
Breathe in.
It always began like this. I’d get home, my brain still focused on work.
Dinner would be made in my sparse kitchen—fewer things meant fewer places to sanitize underneath.
I’d eat alone at my dining room table, looking out at the world through my living room window, imagining what it would be like to be one of the people below.
I bet their chests weren’t tied into knots, ribbons of arteries and veins slowly wrapping around their lungs. One, then the other.
Breathe out.
I’d eat my food slowly, one bite at a time, as if by delaying dinner, I could delay the dread that awaited me when the sun went down. As if by scrubbing my dishes by hand, I could stop the world from turning. There was only so long I could outrun the night.
It didn’t matter how long I stretched out my evening routine. The sun would always start to set. Darkness always began to creep in from the left, spreading out its fingers from the single potted plant next to the window, slowly overtaking the empty end of the sofa.
The flickering of the first solar-powered nightlight signaled the start of the routine.
Breathe in.
Sometimes, I imagined that if I stared hard enough at the dusky skyline, I could prevent the night from flooding in. Other times, I saw it for what it was—a ruse. A game I could play with myself.
Eventually, I’d get to my feet. I’d shut the curtains, pulling them tight. The lights would be turned on, in order. The living room first. Then the hallway. To the kitchen. The small bathroom, still lacking those white tiles I’d dreamed the night before. Finally, I’d turn on my bedroom light.
After, when I’d finally given up the fight against my aching eyelids, I’d turn them all off in the same order.
Breathe out.
Tonight felt different.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on what the psychologist told me, even though I assumed it was useless. Reaching back as far as I could, I stretched for the first five minutes of what I’d forgotten.
But there was nothing there, nothing but blackness, doubt, and a lingering feeling of guilt that made me sick to my stomach.
Harry’s words still swirled in my brain. I had a limited opportunity if I wanted to advance, and I wasn’t going to waste it.
I thought back to my hastily written plan to get my life back on track.
Step One: Psychologist.
Step Two: Holistic remedies for sleep.
Step Three: Stop with the stupid nightmares.
Step Four: Promotion.
Step Five: Stop thinking about the damn man at the coffee shop….
Step one hadn’t helped a damn thing, so I was attempting step two tonight.
The elderly pharmacist at the store across the road suggested a cocktail of Melatonin, Magnesium, and all the vitamin B complex I could stand.
The bottles sat in a neat row on my small kitchen island, staring me down like soldiers ready for battle.
With any luck, steps one and two would help with step three. And as far as the promotion, Harry was on my side.
But step five…
I couldn’t stop thinking about the stranger at the café and his bright eyes that seemed to pierce right through my heart.
He was so handsome it almost hurt. And yet, the dangerous vibe he gave off…
“we” would never happen. Who was to say he was even looking at me?
I was so tired, he could’ve been looking at his girlfriend behind me, or another client—did dealers call their buyers clients?
He could’ve even been looking at the menu, for fuck’s sake.
I cupped my face in my hands, resting my elbows on the countertop.
I was officially losing it. The strongest drug I’d ever taken were the prescription sleeping pills, and I’d only swallowed them out of desperation.
And you couldn’t count the wine, because alcohol was legal.
I was pretty sure whatever he was giving out in those tiny baggies wasn’t something I could buy at the corner liquor store.
Get your act together, Blaire.
I hadn’t dragged myself out of the mud for nothing. Without looking at the dosage labels on the bright, white, legal bottles, I flipped open the lid and threw a few pills in my mouth at once, washing them down with a glass of water. They were just vitamins. Too many of them couldn’t hurt.
Rinsing out my glass and setting it to dry, I wiped a stray water droplet on the counter. Satisfied, I began the reverse of my routine.
Living room. Hallway. Kitchen. Bathroom. Bedroom. Bed. Sleep.
A bathroom that didn’t exist, covered in blood.
Someone was crying. I didn’t think it was me. Maybe it was.
I touched my face, and my fingertips came away wet. When I looked down at my hands, they were red. I wasn’t crying. It was blood.
My lungs froze, mid-breath, a shock of electricity racing from my spine to my feet.
Breathe in.
My heart rattled in its bone cage, demanding to be let out. The edges of my vision closed in, narrowing down to just a tiny view in front of me.
Breathe out.
I was in a movie I didn’t want to be in. I wanted out. But the crying wouldn’t stop, and my hands were so hot and sticky, and fury ran thick in my veins. My heartbeat flashed in front of my eyes, my tiny lens narrowing even more.
The crying trailed off into a quiet sob. I turned to follow the sound. A man lay slouched on the stained wooden floor, gripping his side. Blood stained the pale button-up shirt he wore, and even I knew any attempt to stop the bleeding was futile. He was losing too much too quickly.
He pulled his eyes off his wound, and fear flickered across his face as he met my gaze. Another tear dripped down his cheek as he shook his head. “No, please. Please. I didn’t know.”
And I didn’t know what he was talking about. I didn’t care what he was talking about. My pulse thrummed, a backbeat I didn’t know existed, and for a moment I forgot I wanted to leave the dream. Right now, I wanted revenge.
A beat of anger. A flood of desperation.
I didn’t know what he had done. I just knew he deserved to be lying in a pool of his own blood.
Stepping forward, I considered my options, ignoring the way he pulled away from me the best he could with his broken body.
I could leave him. He would bleed out on his own soon enough, slumping with unseeing eyes on the floor. I could.
“I swear, I didn’t know,” he pleaded, the crying starting all over again.
That fucking crying, though. God, it was annoying.
Closing the distance between us, I pressed the gun to his forehead and smiled.
I don’t know why I expected there would actually be someone crying in my bedroom, as I bolted upright once more. My heart thumped a familiar beat, my lungs gasping for air.
It was only a dream. The only crying in my bedroom would’ve been me. But the nightmare had never made me cry, only scream.
This fucking nightmare was going to ruin everything for me.
You’re ridiculous, Blaire. Are you really going to let a silly dream get the best of you?
I started the check of my body to calm my fight-or-flight mode, which was making it difficult to breathe.
Hands. Stiff when I squeezed them, and a little clammy, but okay otherwise.
Legs. I shook them out, satisfied with the range of motion.
Senses. I blinked a few times, straining to hear the fridge’s quiet electrical hum. All good here, too.
See? Nothing to worry about.
I reached for my dream journal, ready to write down more vague details, but my bedside table was empty. Fuck. I had a sinking feeling I’d left it inside my work bag, which was…at work. Great.
I flipped on the light to double check I wasn’t missing anything. Red fingerprints glared on the table, and my eyes fell to my hands. Dripping with blood.
Sticky, warm, sinful blood.
Now, I screamed.
I tumbled out of bed, racing to the bathroom with its blinding light. I held my hands up to the fluorescent glow and blinked. I blinked again, pulling my palms close to my face.
I could’ve sworn… No, fuck that. I knew what I saw. They were covered in blood, dripping with the warmth of someone else, just like in my dream.
It was there. I would’ve been willing to bet money on it.
I turned to my sink, needing to wash off the desperation and anxiety making my hands tremble as I examined them. Blood or no blood, they felt tainted, and I needed to scrape them clean if I ever hoped to sleep again.
Sleep, I scoffed. What was that even? Nothing I deserved, that was for sure.
Snatching my towel off its hook, I dried my hands, mopping up the stray water droplets that now rimmed my countertop while I focused on coaxing my blood pressure back to a non-emergent level.
A spot was refusing to come off my sink, and I furiously scrubbed at it, thankful to have something to funnel my energy into. It was useless; whatever it was had stained the pale porcelain. The small spot was funny, it almost looked like…blood.
No. Nope. I had already been down that road once tonight. I didn’t need my paranoia sneaking up on me a second time.
A rusty red spot on my sink didn’t immediately mean blood. It could’ve been my makeup. A smear of lipstick I hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
Not like you to be sloppy, Blaire.
I smashed my hand to my forehead, wanting my voice of reason to be quiet for two minutes of my life.
I couldn’t listen to myself think anymore.
I threw open the mirrored cabinet, ignoring my fragile reflection, and popped the small orange bottle with the sleeping pills.
I didn’t even bother with a glass, slurping down the tiny blue tablet with water right from the tap.
Fuck the germs. If I was really losing it, I might as well go all the way to Hell. First stop, drinking tap water. Next stop? Murder.
I slammed the cabinet with more force than necessary, and stomped off to bed, where there were no fingerprints on the table.
I didn’t bother turning off the bathroom light, the glow leaving my room half-illuminated.
The memory of the way I smiled as I pulled the trigger, and the gunpowder that filled my nose overwhelmed my senses.
Something had to give, or I was going to lose my mind. If I hadn’t already lost it.
The prescription didn’t work. The alcohol was a waste of time. The vitamins were absolutely useless. Something niggled at the back of my brain, a flash of a tattooed hand passing over a small bag.
You could always…
No. I couldn’t. Not only would I have to speak to him, but I didn’t even know where to begin buying drugs. I certainly couldn’t explain an arrest and a night in jail to Harry.
My hands itched, a reminder of the blood I could’ve sworn was there. They were already dirty, stained from the dream I couldn’t leave behind.
Buying drugs couldn’t make them any filthier.