12. Chapter Twelve #2
I don’t have the energy to pull the blankets back, so I just collapse on top of them. I’m pretty sure I’m already asleep before my body has the chance to settle.
The last thing I remember is registering the soft crinkle of Matt’s note, still safely held in my hand.
It’s dark. Really dark.
There’s no light coming in through the little crack at the bottom of the closet door. Whoever last used me must have turned the bedroom light off after they were finished. I don’t remember them, but that doesn’t matter. They’re all the same, in the end.
I listen hard, trying to find the music, but there’s nothing to hear except that strange buzzing that sometimes fills my ears.
Or - wait.
There’s… something.
I lean over, trying to figure out what the sound is, and bump into something.
No. Someone.
I bump into someone.
I flinch back, heart hammering. “H-hello?” I ask, keeping my voice quiet. She doesn’t like it when I’m loud. I… don’t remember who she is, but I remember that.
The person grabs at me, their hands strong but not mean, not hurting. They try to move my fingers. It’s like they’re saying something with them. Or trying to, at least. A language. I think - I think I know that language? I think I’ve been learning it?
Except it’s so, so dark and I can’t see anything, I can’t see whatever words the person is trying to show me.
“Say it out loud,” I tell them, but as I do, I realize that they can’t say it.
This person doesn’t talk. I don’t know how I know that.
I don’t know who this is. I can’t see them.
But I just - I know who it is anyway? I can’t think of his name, or even his face, but I know that I know him.
I know who he is. And I know this is not his fault. He can’t help that he can’t talk.
I feel so small and alone, even with him beside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. He’s pulling at my fingers. It’s starting to hurt. “I’m sorry, I can’t see. I can’t see. I’m sorry.”
He’s so quiet, the kind of quiet that makes my ears do the buzzing thing, but I somehow know he’s upset. He’s crying. Sobbing.
“I’m sorry.” I grab at his hands, pulling one to my chest and rubbing in circles. It’s stupid. He can hear me just fine. It’s talking that he can’t do. But this is all I can offer. I rub again and again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He pulls away from me.
I reach for him, but he’s not there.
No one is there.
I turn in circles, crouched low on my knees because I’ll get in trouble if I mess up the clothes hanging above me, and reach and reach and reach. I grasp handfuls of empty air. I want to call to him, but now my voice isn’t working either.
I hit one of the walls of the closet and start to follow it, wanting to make sure I’ve checked every inch of the small space. I grab at the wall, scrabbling at it, trying to find him, trying to find a way out.
“I’m sorry,” I say again and again.
My fingers finally catch on a light switch. I’m too relieved to think about how it shouldn’t exist. I just hurry to flip the little lever.
The light is blinding at first. It hurts. But then I manage to open my eyes.
I’m already grinning as I turn, somehow knowing the person I was looking for is behind me.
Except, I turn to find someone else.
A young boy - so fucking young - with vacant blue eyes and blood-matted blonde hair.
I was too late, too distracted.
He’s dead.
I jerk awake choking on a sob.
I freeze up the moment reality sinks in. It’s cold, but hot too. I’m shivery. The wet, clingy fabric of my sweat-drenched shirt tries to squeeze the life right out of me. I consider letting it. Decide against it. Force myself to fight for breath until each inhale and exhale is calm and steady.
Knowing what comes next never makes it easier. There’s no use trying to fight the deep, aching feeling that sinks its way through my skin and down to my bones. I still don’t have a word for it. All I know is that I hate this. I am so fucking tired of this.
I’m so fucking tired, period.
I set an alarm on my phone. 60 minutes. Not long enough for REM to kick in. Shouldn’t be, at least. Can you have a nightmare outside of REM?
Whatever.
Either way, 60 minutes of a nightmare isn’t as bad as being trapped in one endlessly. At least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Whether the me in the dream will remember that, I have no fucking idea, but it’s better than nothing.
I lay back down and close my eyes.
I see Elliot, vacant eyes looking back at me, his dead body sitting up on its own in a way only nightmares can pull off.
I was too late.
He died.
And Matt.
It was Matt I had been searching for first. Matt who had been so upset. Matt who had been trying to tell me something.
I was too late for him, too. I didn’t find the light fast enough. He disappeared before I could help.
I didn’t save either of them.
I was too late.
What the fuck am I doing?
I force my eyes open. I force my body out of the bed. I close my eyes against the wave of dizziness that kicks in when I first get to my feet, using a hand on the nightstand to brace myself.
I reek, the thick scent of fear sweat combining with the usual funk that comes from having avoided self-care for a little too long. It clings to my skin, worse than my damp shirt.
So, a shower first.
Then back to work.
Travis calls that night.
He’s on his way back to the safehouse.
Mica was nowhere to be found.