9. Wesley
9
WESLEY
I know it’s a dream, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s real.
The gun is heavy in my hand, its roughness scraping against my aching fingers. Dust clings to my lungs. Each moment arrives with repeated precision, and not a damn thing changes. My limbs are stuck. No matter how much effort I pour into moving my body, I remain still as gunfire pops off around me. The blown-up car provides enough protection for me, but not for the little boy standing frozen with fear in the line of fire.
I get to him in time. I know I do.
But here, I don’t. My eyes snap shut after the first bullet strikes his body. His screams of agony cut into my mind, followed by Santiago’s rough voice.
“Clean this up. Find Revalté and bring him to me.”
What I think is fury and anticipation building in my chest turns out to be my face dug into my pillow, blocking airflow. Instead of a gun clenched in my fist, a comforter. I flip from my stomach to my back and inhale fresh, crisp air into my lungs. If I know it’s a dream, why can’t I escape it?
I glance around my new apartment. Moonlight streams through the curtains.
3:22 a.m.
All hope of sleep is lost. The brightness of my personal phone blinds me, and when I turn it down, I notice at least ten texts from Cora. Half of them are life updates and the other half are questions about my new job. She would worry if I respond now, so I shut my phone off and take a shower. The hot water eases my muscles, but the sound of the boy’s frightened scream makes me tense instantly. My hair isn’t dirty, but I wash it anyway.
A new part of my life began and I’m trying to see the improvements. It’s a relief to not be surrounded by a death roster, but mirrors stand at every turn now. I scrub the conditioner into my scalp, hoping that each scrape will rip out the memories.
By the time I’m done, it’s four in the morning, and after a few minutes of sitting on the edge of the bed bouncing my knee, I drop to the floor for push-ups. Each rep gives me something to focus on. If I have nothing to focus on, I’ll drift back to self-loathing and ruminating on the past.
And I hate letting that control me.