Chapter 2
Brianna
Dressed for my funeral
Cold, heavy chains cut into my wrists as I try to break free, but my nightmares hold me captive, forcing me to watch everything in slow motion with an evil smirk written across their faces.
Ear-splintering sounds of glass shattering and tires squealing are a broken record in my mind.
All my desperate attempts to change the direction of my dreams fall flat.
Tires squeal.
Glass breaks.
People shout.
Max lays lifeless beside me, red blood oozing from the side of his face.
My screams and shouts fall silent. No one can hear me.
I reach for Max, but I’m yanked from what’s left of my car.
My head is pounding, and I assume my face is scratched and bloody from the glass.
I watch as they pull Max from the car seconds before it bursts into flames, illuminating the scene in its red-orange glow.
I’ve been living this nightmare for months now, a former shell of myself with zero energy to do the basics like shower or change my clothes.
My outfit is falling apart, with random chocolate ice cream stains on my sweats and my pink, oversized hoodie fraying at the hem.
A perfect representation of my life. My clothes may be tattered and worn, but they’ve become my home.
My safety blanket. They don’t judge me for my lack of energy or personal hygiene.
They allow me to hide from the world, but more importantly, they allow me to hide from myself.
I’m dressed for my funeral. Here lies Bri.
She was bold, brilliant, outgoing, and charismatic.
The girl that everyone once knew and loved is dead.
In her place is a zombie. Someone who goes through the motions just to get through the day.
Gone are the days of hanging out with friends, getting drunk, and hooking up.
Her free spirit has been snuffed out like the last remaining candle in a dark room.
Any attempts to reach out and comfort her are half-assed.
She doesn't deserve to be happy. She doesn't deserve to live life like nothing happened.
Guilt and I have entered a toxic, codependent relationship.
Without Max’s chaotic energy, what’s the point of anything?
Why should I carry on with my life the way I used to?
I miss the old me, but the old me is the reason Max was in the hospital in the first place.
I’m the reason he spent months completely immobilized and helpless in a sterile hospital bed.
He may be on the road to recovery, but I'm still trapped in the past, still trapped beneath the rubble of my shame and no energy to remove the excess weight.
Electricity licks and buzzes down my spine, the tiny hairs on my arms standing to attention.
My heart beats at a dangerous speed, and no matter how much I gasp for air, I can never get enough.
I glance toward my dresser and see the orange bottle with a white cap glaring at me, mocking me.
You are useless. You are weak. You can’t do anything right.
Mental health medications aren’t something to be ashamed about.
My best friend, Avery, takes them for her anxiety.
In no way am I calling her weak—in fact, she’s one of the strongest women I know.
But I’m learning firsthand that we don’t always practice what we preach.
While Avery is strong, brave, and incredible, I’m useless, a failure, and defective.
The panic feels like I’ve become a wolf in one of my shifter romance novels, scratching beneath my skin, hoping to gain control over my body.
I frantically shake my hands in a desperate attempt to rid myself of the anxiety while pacing my bedroom floor.
My face feels hot. Hot…just like the flames from the accident.
Max lies unconscious on the floor. Blue and red flashing lights. Glass everywhere.
I’m warring with my mind to cling to the present moment.
Scenes from the accident flicker across my brain without any warning.
I’m blinded by my own images, my mind and body yearning to head in different directions.
My brain wants to bully me into replaying what happened on an endless loop.
My body is determined to remain in my room.
Focus, Bri. Don’t go back there. Nothing good comes from reliving that experience. You’re not dying. You are in your room, not at the scene of the accident.
I force my gaze to look around the room, a pathetic attempt at regulating my breathing.
I see my twinkly lights dangling behind my earthy-brown colored four-poster bed.
My blush comforter is soft to the touch, with little wrinkles from another restless sleep.
My pillows are scattered throughout my room, ranging in different shades of pink and white.
Already, my heart has slowed down immensely, my breathing more regular.
I glance out of my bay window and focus on the Pacific blue sky and the white, cotton candy-esque clouds in the sky.
It’s a particularly chilly morning. The trees are a collection of sticks and twigs bound together, completely void of life and color.
I walk toward the small bench to open the window, allowing the bitter winter air to slap across my face, leaving a faint stinging in its wake.
Breathe in the calm serenity of the morning.
Breathe out panic and shame.
I repeat this mantra in my head. Slowly, the tingles evaporate from my body, my mind returning to its resting ground. Well, as much as it can with how chaotic it’s become.
I’ve never been this much of a hot mess express.
Outside the normal levels of anxiety everyone experiences, I never had an issue with my mental health.
Yeah, I struggled with inadequacy from time to time, but I’ve always prided myself on being an open book.
Sometimes too open. But that was something I loved about me.
Now, the very thought of sharing my internal dialogue makes my skin itch as if tiny ants are crawling over me.
The accident did a number on me, especially because I wasn’t alone in the car. It was me who wanted to go out and have fun. A little sibling bonding time, if you will. It was me who planned everything out. It was me who ended up in that car wreck, and it was me who put my brother in harm's way.
My skin twitches with discomfort. I hate who I’ve become, but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I even want to fix it. So instead of dealing with everything head-on like a mature, responsible adult, I slink back under my covers and hide from the world. It’s become my new norm.
The sound of my front door unlocking has me bolting upright.
I know without looking in the mirror that my wavy hair is a rat's nest and my eyes are puffy.
In this installment of my nightmares, I prayed it was me who got injured and not Max.
Maybe if it happened to me in the dream instead of him, it would relieve me of my guilt. Spoiler alert—it did not.
“Brianna?” The soft, soothing voice belonging to Avery calls from downstairs.
I love Avery to pieces. She’s my soulmate, my person, but I just can’t face the disappointment on her face when she sees what I’ve become.
Especially after I pulled an Irish goodbye at her wedding and ghosted her.
So I shrink back under the covers, hoping she’ll give up and leave.
I should have known that wouldn’t be the case.
Her normally soft footsteps are drumbeats as she makes her way toward me.
My room is usually organized and clean. You could swipe your finger along any surface and there wouldn’t be a speck of dust. Now, it looks as if a tornado and hurricane flew through it.
Empty bags of snacks and candy wrappers decorate my floor.
Clothes are tossed haphazardly. It’s so bad that I can’t recall what the actual floor looks like anymore.
Do I have carpeting or laminate flooring?
My blanket still covers my head, and I brace myself for judgment when she peels the layers back.
It isn’t fair to assume she’ll judge me; she’s my best friend, for fuck’s sake.
Avery and I have been attached at the hip since we met in college.
We’ve had our fair share of messy moments without any judgment.
We accept each other as we are—flaws and all.
Yet, it feels like I’m a disappointment to her.
I haven’t been a proper friend, which only adds fuel to my fire of shame.
My mind is a master manipulator, excelling at spinning webs of lies.
“Bri?” Avery asks again, her voice much closer now.
Despite hiding under my blanket cocoon, I know she’s standing in the doorway to my room.
She is going to run for the hills. You can’t even clean up your room.
You’re such a failure. She’s going to take one look at you and walk away for good.
My thoughts buzz in my brain like wasps.
Stinging me regardless of whether I bother them or not.
I’ve prepared for the worst, so when I feel the bed shift next to me, I squeeze my eyes shut.
If I don’t see her, then she can’t see me.
I cling to that hope like a child clutching their favorite teddy bear.
It doesn’t work, and Avery just crawls under the blanket with me.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I repeat that mantra five times before gaining the courage to open my eyes and shift to look at her.
All the preparations for what I thought I would see evaporate.
Avery doesn’t look disgusted with me. Her eyes shimmer with empathy, opening her arms and inviting me to crawl into her embrace.
I feel like a puppet on strings, my life no longer my own.
I can’t fully register how good it feels to have a choice.
Avery just lies there, her arms outstretched and a smile on her face.
Her body language screams comfort. Her eyes say I’ve got you.
I’m here for you and I’m not going anywhere.
I know that even if I reject her warm gesture, she won’t go anywhere.
Despite the toxic sludge my brain tosses at me, that’s a fact I know to be true.
Avery will always support those she cares about, even when said person doesn’t give two shits about themselves.
The second Avery’s arms wrap around me, I lose it, clinging to her like a lifeline as I soak her shirt with my hopelessness.
I let it all out. Since everything happened, I’ve shut everyone out—including Avery.
Yet, here she is, acting as if we just hung out the other day.
My radio silence hasn’t deterred her from being my friend.
She’s here in my room, giving me everything I know I need, but don’t have the courage to ask for.
Avery begins to hum the tune of Stand By You by Rachel Platten.
She’s always communicated best through song.
And while she isn’t singing the words, I know the lyrics enough to understand what she’s trying to say.
She knows that Rachel Platten is my all-time favorite artist, so it means a lot that she chose this song.
My head rests against her chest and I focus on the buzzing sensation from her humming to radiate through my body.
Right now, I’m protected, I’m loved, and most importantly, I’m safe.
I’m not fully committed to accepting all those feelings, but right now, I can keep the fire of hope inside my heart simmering.
Avery massages my scalp, and I feel my body become heavy with sleep.
Just by being here and comforting me, Avery has planted a seed of faith.
And maybe with time, that seed can blossom into a beautiful, thriving plant that can withhold even the toughest of storms. I fall asleep with a soft smile on my face, and it’s the first time in months that nightmares aren’t the star of the show.
I can’t help but think that maybe I’m not so damaged after all.