Chapter 4
Three years later
I was back in my childhood home. Everything felt heavy and strange, as if I were walking through invisible, waist-high water.
The wallpaper was the same faded green, peeling in the corners.
The carpet felt soft beneath my bare feet.
I couldn’t be more than ten. The screams were muffled, warped by the walls, but they were there.
“Mom?” My voice cracked as I crept down the long hallway. Each step felt wrong, like the house itself didn’t want me there.
“Mom?” I called again.
No answer.
I knew something terrible was waiting in the living room. The same living room where my parents used to watch TV after they thought I was asleep.
Another scream tore through the house.
“Mom!” My voice was louder now, raw with panic. I wanted to turn around and run, but something in me pushed forward. What if she needed help? What if Dad was hurting her?
He’d never been violent before. Not physically. But we were always afraid he might be. One day, we knew it could happen.
“Mom!” I shouted again, tears burning my eyes. The hallway stretched on like a nightmare. I felt as if I were running in place.
“Dad, stop!” I shouted, even though I didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know if he was hurting her.
Gathering my courage, my steps quickened, carrying me to the door at the end of the hallway.
I reached out, hand trembling, fingertips just grazing the rough wood.
Then a burst of blood exploded in front of me.
A choked sound slipped from my mouth.
“Emily!” Daniel’s voice cut through the fog. His hands gripped my shoulders. “Emily, wake up.”
“Wake up, wake up,” Mochi echoed, flapping frantically in his cage.
Blinking, dazed, I looked around. The penthouse’s living room came into focus.
High ceilings, sleek furniture, too much space.
I was in my nightgown, my feet cold on the marble floor.
Daniel stood in front of me, worry etched into every line of his face.
Mochi, my African Grey, fluttered wildly in his cage, repeating, “Wake up, wake up.”
“How long have I been sleepwalking?” I asked, already moving toward the cage. I lifted the blanket we draped over it at night.
“Six minutes,” Daniel said. “You were awake again. Talking to me. Said I should go back to bed. Don’t you remember?”
I shook my head. My fingers slipped through the bars and stroked Mochi. His sleek grey feathers shimmered with soft silver tones, the edges dusted in pale white. A flush of crimson colored his tail. He calmed immediately, his eyes fluttering closed as if he were a child tucking himself back in.
“Just bad dreams,” I murmured.
Daniel didn’t look convinced.
“Extreme nightmare-related NREM parasomnias,” I added, almost by habit. “Remember? That’s what the Harvard neurologist said after all the tests came back clean.”
PTSD. That was what Cynthia said. But that wasn’t news. I’d carried that diagnosis nearly my whole life. It came in waves. Sometimes manageable. Sometimes like this.
The clinic psychiatrist had tried everything—Zoloft, Paxil, Prozac, Celexa. Nothing helped. And when she started suggesting antipsychotics, I stopped being honest about the nightmares.
I wasn’t hallucinating during the day. Just confused for a bit after I woke up.
Daniel took my hand and guided me to the couch. I didn’t even have to say it. He already knew.
“I’m real,” he whispered. “You’re not dreaming anymore.”
I nodded, but my eyes fell to our hands. To the wedding ring on my finger. I was still afraid that the best part of my life might be a dream too.
Daniel pulled his phone from the pocket of his pajama pants. His gold wedding band flashed in the light as he tapped the record button.
He cleared his throat, smiling. “I think I know,” he said into the phone as it recorded.
I smiled back. I loved this game. We’d played it more times than I could count.
“I think you got this scar saving someone,” he said. “Like in one of those Chuck Norris hero movies.”
I laughed. “Sounds about right.”
He leaned in and softly kissed the scar on my neck. “You remember now? Bullets flying. Screams of gratitude.”
He stopped recording and played it back. Hearing his recorded voice grounded me like nothing else could. This was our trick—a technique Cynthia taught me. If it was real, it would play back. If it wasn’t, if it was a hallucination, there’d be nothing. Not even during active psychosis.
So when his voice echoed from the speaker, steady and warm, something inside me unclenched.
This wasn’t a dream.
“See? I’m real,” he said softly. “You can play it for Cynthia tomorrow. She’ll hear it too.”
I smiled but remained silent.
His face shifted, concern returning. “You’re not canceling on her again, are you?”
I wanted to. But I didn’t want to disappoint him.
“No. I won’t cancel.”
I leaned in and kissed him, my hands cupping his face. God, he was beautiful. How had I gotten so lucky? His lips were soft, familiar. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent.
He eased me down onto the couch, his hands lifting my nightgown as his lips traced the length of my scar. It always turned us both on when he kissed it. Our strange little ritual. Our kink.
He entered me slowly, our bodies rocking in rhythm. It felt so good. It always did. Sometimes, it even brought me to tears.
“You saved someone when you got the scar,” he said, his mouth against my neck, tracing the edge of the scar.
I let out a low moan, my hips lifting instinctively as my body tensed under his touch.
“I know you did,” he continued, his voice low and rough against my ear.
His pace quickened, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge.
My fingers dug into his back as burning, tingling heat coiled inside me.
A few more strokes, and we shattered together—gasping, trembling, our bodies locked in a tight embrace.
For a moment, he stayed on top of me, his lips pressed onto mine.
I pulled back to look into his eyes. “What if I got the scar robbing a candy store as a kid?” I teased.
“Nah,” he said, brushing hair from my sweaty face. His eyes were so certain. “You’re the selfless hero type.”