25. Karla
KARLA
“Please, stop,” I screamed as Hanif dragged me by the back of my neck into the bathroom. “I promise I will be good.”
The nightmare pulled me under before I even realized I’d fallen asleep. One second Brayden's warm arm was curled around my waist, heavy and comforting, his breathing steady against my shoulder… and the next, the world snapped into that old, familiar horror.
My foster father was a mean drunk with a short fuse and a quick hand—quick boots too.
The hallway lights flickered the way they always did when he’d ripped the bulbs half loose in a rage.
The smell hit me first in the dream—stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and that sour tang that lived in the carpets of every shitty rental we bounced through.
“Shut up!” he roared as he slammed my head onto the bathroom counter.
The sound cracked through me—bone, tile, fear—and I tasted copper immediately.
“What did I do?” I cried, blood flooding my mouth. I sounded so young. Too young. That tiny voice that still lived somewhere in the back of my mind made the dream feel real enough to choke on.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” His boot kicked my shin, white-hot pain exploding down my leg as I fell to my knees.
I remembered this moment. It was one of the many I tried not to. But trauma doesn’t care about logic or timing. It sneaks in through sleep, prying open doors you welded shut years ago.
Jeremiah burst through the door, just like he always had—fearless, stupidly brave, always taking the brunt of what he could to shield the rest of us. “Jeremiah! Don’t! He’ll just hurt you too.”
But he never listened. Jeremiah was the only kid in that house actually related to Hanif and his venomous wife, which somehow gave him both the most to lose and the most courage to stand up to them.
“Run!” he screamed at me, voice cracking with effort as he clung to his father’s shirt.
My bare feet slid on the dirty tile as I scrambled up and bolted. I tore down the hall into the room I shared with three other girls. I didn’t even know which beds were empty, which were occupied, which kids were awake and terrified—only that survival meant hiding.
“Hide!” I whispered, before diving into the closet.
The memory blurred into nightmare then—details turning sharper than they ever were in real life. The closet felt smaller, the shadows darker, the air thicker. I crouched behind plastic tubs and old blankets, my heartbeat loud enough to find me.
Hanif’s stomping footsteps grew louder, each thud like a countdown to something inevitable.
Until he was right outside the mirrored sliding doors.
My breath hitched as his shadow filled the hallway light.
“Think you can hide from me, you good for nothing waste of life?!”
The dream slammed into me like a freight train—
And suddenly—
“Karla!” Brayden’s voice cut through the darkness like a spotlight, tearing the nightmare apart.
My eyes flew open.
I gasped for air, chest heaving, the comforter bunched in my fists so tightly my knuckles ached. The room around me—the dim lamplight, the navy bedsheets, Brayden’s warm skin, the faint scent of laundry detergent and him—pulled me back to now.
Safe. I was safe.
I blinked rapidly, trying to remember where I was, who I was, when I was.
“What?” My voice came out small, shaky, unfamiliar.
Brayden leaned over me, eyes bleary but concerned. “I think you were having a bad dream.”
His arms wrapped around me, strong and steady, pulling me into his chest. The contrast between past and present nearly broke me—his warmth versus the cold grip of memory.
“Are you all right?” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss into my hair.
I released a tremorous exhale and nestled deeper into him, fitting myself against his chest like it was molded for this exact purpose. For me. “Now I am.”
The words came out before I thought them through, but they were true. His body felt like a shield. A promise. A safe haven I’d never known existed.
Outside the window, early-morning light hadn’t fully crept in yet. The room felt quiet and suspended, like the world hadn’t started turning again. I inhaled him—the faint scent of cedar body wash and the lingering warmth of skin—and it grounded me in the present instead of pulling me backward.
He kissed the top of my head again and fought a yawn. “Do you want to talk about it?”
For a moment, I considered it. The dream was vivid, raw, jagged around the edges. But the idea of dragging those memories into this gentle moment felt too heavy. Too sharp. Like dropping a cold glass into boiling water.
I let my head rest fully on his shoulder. “We can save that for another time.”
He didn’t push. He didn’t prod or ask again. He just held me, thumb making slow, soothing patterns on my upper arm.
“Right now,” I whispered, “I just want to sleep safely in your arms.”
His chest rose and fell in a deep, tired rhythm. “That’s fine, baby,” he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.
Within seconds, Brayden’s breathing deepened. Low snores vibrated against my cheek, the sound gentle and oddly comforting. I felt myself soften into him, tension unwinding from my muscles like it had been wound there for years.
And in that quiet, as the nightmare faded fully into the background, a small realization settled into me:
This was the first time in my entire life that I’d woken from a nightmare into safety instead of fear.
I closed my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of Brayden’s heart under my ear.
And slowly, wrapped securely in his arms, I drifted back to sleep.