17
Dylan
T hen
“There’s no point in fighting, Dylan. No one will give a damn what comes out of your mouth. Not a single soul. Why would they? Your mom’s a worthless drunk, nothing but a used up whore who can’t keep her shit together. You really think anyone’s gonna waste their time listening to you? You’re nothing to them. Just noise. A problem waiting to be ignored.”
He crowds in behind me, pressing in until there’s nowhere for me to go. My throat locks, my hands fisting into the sheets as I shove my face into the pillow. “You really thought you were special, didn’t you? I made you feel that way. Made you believe you were important. But you’re not. You never were.”
His voice doesn’t die with the dream. It stains the waking world. I bolt upright, breath rattling, sweat dripping, but the silence does nothing to wash him away. Sleep presses in, disorienting, and for a ghost of a second, I’m unsure if I’m awake or trapped in some cruel continuation of the nightmare.
My phone blinks on the nightstand, a dim beacon against the dark. Its glow cuts through the room in splintered lines, but nothing feels real enough to trust. My grip tightens on the blanket, desperate for the scratch of fabric.
“It’s not real,” the words tumble out quietly, more a plea than a reassurance. “He’s gone. He’s not here.”
I peel myself from the mattress, the air biting at my sweat damp skin as my legs drag free from the tangle of sheets. The floor is unforgivingly cold, a shock of reality against the ghost clinging to me.
The bathroom light sputters to life, carving deep shadows into my reflection as I shove the faucet on. Water crashes against the sink, and I plunge my hands into it, dragging the icy relief up to my face. It drips from my chin, slipping down my neck like sweat, like blood, like a stain I can’t scrub off.
I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles bone-white. The nightmare hasn’t loosened his grip—it festers in the cracks of my skull, pulsing behind my eyes, whispering from the corners of the room.
A glass of water might help—might wash it down, remind me I’m still here.
The hallway feels impossibly long, each step down feels like wading through tar, dragging me deeper into the murk of the childhood I swore I’d buried. The sensation of his hands resurfaces, slithering back uninvited, and I force myself to focus on the smooth floor beneath my bare feet. The only proof that I am here, and not back there.
My throat clenches with a dull ache, as if something is lodged there. When I step into the kitchen, Greg’s figure by the sink materializes out of the half light, flickering hues of the TV casting shifting patterns across his skin.
His voice cuts through the static in my head.
“Oh. Sorry if I woke you.”
I halt mid step, my pulse still skittering from the nightmares claws. “No, I—um, was just getting water.”
“You okay?” He moves closer, the shift in space sending a cold shudder through me.
“Yeah.” A blatant lie, but I cling to it. “It’s just been a long night.”
Greg barely exists in this house, slipping in and out, always on the road, barely leaving an imprint. My fingers press into the counter’s edge, biting into my palm as he moves again—too close. I jerk back before I can stop myself.
He hesitates, his brows pulling together, but at least he stops. “Are you sure?”
“Sorry,” I blurt, the apology tumbling out desperately. “I’m fine. Just jumpy. I’m heading back to bed.” I leave before he can speak. The water doesn’t matter. I abandon it, turning sharply, and retreat to my room, my pulse a war drum beneath my skin.
I drop onto the bed, but my body won’t settle. The adrenaline fades, leaking from my limbs. Closing my eyes feels like an invitation, a door cracked open for the nightmare to crawl back through, and I’m not ready for that.
I grab my sketchbook and flip to a blank page, the lead carving harsh strokes as I press into the paper. His face threatens to drift back into focus, but the frantic movements of the pencil push it away.
Unruly, erratic lines fill the surface, growing harsher with every pass. The night stretches on, and the sun begins to rise, its light filtering weakly through the blinds. My burning eyes protest from lack of sleep, but the drawing isn’t finished. Yet.
The portrait glares back at me, unsettling in its vulnerability. A specter of myself bled onto the page—eyes sunken beneath brutal strokes, lips split and bruised in shadows. Hair erupts in wild, frantic tangles, like it’s trying to escape the body it belongs to. She looks hunted. Cornered. Like she knows there’s no way out.
Scrawled words overlay the image, repeated over and over— why me? —cut deep into the paper. My fingers trace the grooves, feeling the heaviness of the graphite ground too hard. It’s a reflection of everything I’ve bottled up all these years. It’s the pain I’ve hidden, the rage of every buried scream, spilling out in lines that snarl and snare across the page.
A glance at my phone on the nightstand sends panic through the moment. Time’s run out, and my shift at Ruby’s starts in less than an hour. My clothes are thrown on hastily—jeans, an oversized cardigan, whatever’s within reach. I’m dressed and out the door in a rush, and the short walk to the diner is a blur, but as I arrive the clock inside reads just before seven—I barely made it.
“Good morning, Sunshine!” Ruby’s voice rings from the kitchen, brimming with unshaken enthusiasm.
“Morning, Ms. Miller,” I reply, though it’s an effort to match her energy.
“Oh, none of that!” She waves a hand, already rounding the bar. “I told you—call me Ruby. I won’t say it again.”
Her golden-brown eyes gleam, her red hair spilling from a loose braid, as if she’s always moving too fast to fuss over the details.
The hours blur together, the unwavering rhythm of the diner pulling me along until late afternoon sneaks up. The lunch rush ends, leaving only the sound of a damp cloth against the counter as I wipe it down. The bell above the front door chimes, and I glance up.
Brooks saunters in, all casual arrogance, hands buried in his pockets, that damn smirk already in place.
“What are you doing here?”
He gasps, clutching his chest like I just mortally wounded him. “Wow. No, ‘Hey Brooks, so great to see you’? No, ‘My day just got infinitely better’?”
“Pretty sure my shift ending was already the highlight of my day,” I deadpan. “Your timing though, is suspicious.”
“Suspiciously perfect, you mean?” He steps closer and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “I have a sixth sense for knowing when you’re about to be free. I was planning on heading to Cape Mercy Lighthouse for some photos and thought maybe you’d want to come along.”
“I’d love to. Let me grab my stuff.”
I clock out and head to the back, ditching my coffee scented shirt for something fresher.
The road stretches ahead, an ocean-kissed breeze sneaking through the cracked window. Music vibrating through the car like a second heartbeat.
Brooks flicks his fingers against the wheel, offbeat and unbothered, while the coastline stretches endless beside us. I glance at him, catching the way his lips curve with a grin that hints at excitement. His dimples deepen as he keeps his attention on the road, and I can’t help but smile.
“You’re staring.”
I wrinkle my nose, a soft giggle escaping. “Just…enjoying the scenery.”
“Oh yeah?” He throws a quick glance in my direction, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “And what makes it so special?”
“Hmm.” I shrug, squinting my eyes and offering a playful smile. “It’s something I could get lost in.”
“I could get lost in you…” There’s amusement in his voice, and when his gaze drifts back over to me, heat spreads through every inch of my body. “Though if you keep looking at me like that, we might have to pull the truck over right here.”
Heat flares in my chest, and I yank my focus to the windshield, biting my lip as the corners of my mouth threaten treachery. As we reach the lighthouse, he throws the car in park, barely waiting a beat before hopping out and pulling my door open with an exaggerated bow.
“Chivalry isn’t dead, I see,” I tease, slipping my hand into his as he helps me down.
“Only for you,” he murmurs, like it’s an unshakeable truth. “Come on. Let’s take some pictures.”
The climb up the lighthouse’s steep staircase is enough to leave my legs burning, but the view at the top makes it worth every step. Cool air whips past us, sharp with salt, while sunlight dances off the water in rippling shards of silver.
“It doesn’t feel real up here,” I admit, leaning against the railing. “It’s like we’re both insignificant and invincible all at once. As if the world stops just for this.”
“That’s why I love photography,” Brooks says, stepping closer. “You can capture moments like this. Freeze them. Own them. It’s like holding time in your hands.”
His camera clicks, the sound pulling me from the view.
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
He lowers the camera, a hint of a challenge in his expression. “I wanted to freeze the moment.”
“Oh, sure. A picture of me looking windblown and confused. So sentimental.”
“Not confused,” he states, his eyes never leaving mine. “Just you, as you are. No doubts, no second guessing—just this moment.”
His words sink in like footsteps in wet sand—fleeting but deeply felt. What is it about him that makes the sharp edges of my life dull to something manageable? Like the broken pieces aren’t as jagged when he’s near.
The wind whips strands of hair across my face, catching on my lashes, his hand moves, brushing them back with careful fingers. He stays close, the space between us shrinking until it feels like the world is holding its breath.
“You’re thinking too much,” he says softly, voice low enough to blend with the wind.
His lips hover close, and I barely manage to breathe before they press against mine. The cold metal railing digging into my back, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. Brooks’ hand moves to my neck, his thumb tracing a soft line across my cheek.
The kiss deepens, unraveling something in me I didn’t realize was so tightly wound. For the first time in forever, the weight of my past feels distant, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
Then, the moment shatters. My phone vibrates in my pocket, the buzz reverberating against the metal railing pressed behind me.
“Crap,” the word slips out as I pull away and reach for my phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s my mom.” A sigh escapes as I stare at the screen. “I forgot to text her that I wasn’t coming straight home after work.” It’s not because she cares whether I’m around—she just thrives on having the upper hand. “I have to go.”
Brooks’ fingers curl around mine as he steers me toward the stairs. “Alright, then I’ll get you home.”
The truck feels like a barrier as we drive, safe, but the moment I step out, reality crashes in. I press my palms against my jeans, restless with bottled up anxiety.
“I can come,” Brooks offers, like it’s not even a question, just a fact.
“No, it’s okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” The reassurance feels thin, but I don’t want him involved in this. The chance of mom not caring is a fantasy. If I walk in with him, she’ll play nice until he’s gone—but the second the door closes behind him, I’ll pay for it twice over.
“Alright. But text me if you need anything— anything , Dylan. I can come back if you need me to.”
“I will.” I press a gentle kiss to his cheek before pulling away, the space between us stretching taut with every step I take toward home.
The short walk inside feels like a march toward the inevitable. Pushing open the door, the low hum of the television cuts through the tension, and there she is—on the couch, her hair a tangled mess, frustration practically radiating off her.
“Look who finally showed up. Where have you been?”
“My shift ran late,” the words come out steady, a practiced calm I’ve had years to master wrapping around them.
“You couldn’t bother to text me? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”
“Sorry. It slipped my mind.”
“Bullshit,” she spits, standing now. “You’re always forgetting something. Always screwing up.”
Her words strike like a whip, but I bite back my response. Anything else would be fuel for the fire. Turning away, it’s like wading through deep water, every step slower as her voice hooks into me, pulling me back.
“I was gathering laundry today. Had to wade through that wreck you call a room. It’s just as messed up as you are—but want to take a wild guess at what I dug up?”
“You…went through my room?”
“Sure did. And lucky for me—otherwise, I’d have never stumbled across this little sketchbook.” She dangles it like it’s diseased. “The page it was open to? Downright deranged. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? Why would you draw yourself like that?”
“It wasn’t yours to touch.” The words barely make it past the tightness choking my throat.
“Well, isn’t that just convenient.” Her sneer could make even the strongest man cower. “Poor Dylan. Always pretending to be the victim, like your life is so hard. You don’t fool me.”
“That’s not—”
“Shut up,” she snaps, voice cracking as it turns into a screech. “Just shut up. You’re more trouble than you’re worth most days. And I’m done with you playing this act, like anyone should feel sorry for you.”
“Mom, pl—”
“I can’t do this right now. Just get out of my face.”
The walls close in, pressing against me like a living thing, watching, waiting, as I drag myself toward my room. The door clicks shut, sealing me in, and I sink to the floor, the wood biting into me as I fold in on myself. My breath stutters, scraping against my lungs like it doesn’t belong inside me.
Her accusation wraps around me, squeezing, strangling. She never stops to think—never wonders what I bury so deep it seeps out in lines. She only sees what she wants to. And now, she’s turned it into something shameful.
I curl tighter, willing myself to be small, invisible. But disappearing isn’t an option. Not anymore.
I plant my hands against the ground, deep enough that my nails almost splinter. My body protests, everything leaden, heavy. But I move anyway, hauling myself up piece by piece, as if I’m something irrevocably broken trying to remember what it is to stand.
The bathroom offers refuge, a fragile kind of sanctuary. Stepping inside feels like slipping between worlds, bringing me back to being that little girl, hiding. Into a space where I can breathe. The lock clicks into place, a flimsy barrier, but one that’s desperately needed.
The shower tap sputters before water streams, filling the room with warmth. I peel away my clothes with the same numb efficiency that carries me into the water. The heat stings at first but quickly becomes soothing, easing the shame gripping every inch of me.
Water pools around my feet, carrying away the remnants of everything clinging to me—the anger, the hurt, the helplessness. For a few minutes, it’s just the sound of water and the sensation of it cascading over my skin.
As steam blankets the room, I grab a towel from the rack on the wall and wrap it around myself.
My fingers wipe a section of the mirror revealing a foggy outline of my reflection. I hover on the edge, torn between facing myself or letting the mirror win. The face staring back doesn’t lie, and I lock eyes with a stranger wearing my skin.
The girl in the reflection isn’t the same one who ran to this bathroom for solace. Something is different now—an absence of fear I don’t fully understand yet but can’t ignore.
Her words, no matter how sharp or cruel, can’t break what’s already been pieced back together. They don’t define me. Not anymore.
The floor, the conversation, the tears—they stay behind as I step into the hallway. The girl in the mirror is still learning, still finding her way, but she’s standing again. And that’s enough for tonight.