Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
On returning home from the bar, I ransack my bathroom cabinet, pulling out boxes of paracetamol, ibuprofen, congestion tablets, and antidepressants until I find what I’m looking for.
Over the past ten years, I’ve been prescribed an apothecary’s worth of drugs that were supposed to help me feel better. The early days were a blur of chemical-induced survival, my zombielike existence a mist of hazy memories. The drugs all made me feel like I was cocooned from the world, going through the daily motions in a suspended state of reality.
It was a horrible feeling, existing yet not, the side-effects bringing their own catalogue of symptoms, such as sleeplessness yet feeling tired all the time, irritable bowel syndrome, and brain fog. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life blindly fumbling through the haze. So, slowly, I weaned myself off the drugs until I was able to function without them. But until my first meeting with Valdemar, my nights remained troubled, my mind refusing to shut down, the loss clawing at my skull like a hungry beast feeding on my what-ifs.
Holding the box of sedatives, I almost laugh at why I didn’t think to try these when I was first attempting to quash the dreams.
I was prescribed them years ago when my sleepless nights were starting to affect my ability to operate and hold down my job. They’re strong, and the doctor told me I couldn’t use them every night, only for the times when I’d gone days without sleep and my body was struggling.
Flipping the box over, I clock the use-by date—just gone three years.
I’m about to toss them in the bin when Una’s face flashes before my eyes, the look of horror on it when I’d told her I’d visited Valdemar Montresor and was beginning to understand why he’d killed my brother. Then I replayed the look when Pierre had mentioned the dreams.
What would their reactions be if they knew the truth about the dreams, how I’ve been craving them? How safe I felt in his arms during the fight at the prison, how he’s the only person I can talk to without holding anything of myself back?
I can still feel the tingling on my skin from when Una had removed her caring hand from the back of mine when I told her I understood why Valdemar had killed my brother.
What is wrong with me? Why have I bonded with Valdemar? Is it because he’s given me answers? Because he still has a link to my brother? Was it the way he made me feel the day of the fight? Or is it purely the dreams? Has he manipulated me into feeling things that aren’t really there?
I’m starting to lose my fucking mind and my grip on reality.
And it has to stop before I lose myself completely to Valdemar Montresor.
I punch two pills out of the blister pack, pop them into my mouth, and swallow before heading to my bedroom, where I dig out Valdemar’s T-shirt from under my pillow.
I should throw it away. Shred it. Burn it. But I can’t. Instead, I stuff it into the back of my closet, trying not to inhale his scent embedded in the cotton.
Sending out silent prayers, I climb into bed, hoping to God the sedative works and knocks me out for the night.
The plush carpet is soft beneath my bare feet, my toes sinking into the woven loops, the dark red colour a stark contrast to the paleness of my skin.
Lights bedazzle my periphery like a kaleidoscope flaring at the edges of my vision. Voices of people I can’t see rain down around me. With each step, more words reach me.
“Higher.”
“Black twenty-nine.”
“Place your bets.”
There’s a drink in my hand, amber in colour, the glass cold against my palm. But when I take a sip, the glass is empty, yet I feel the liquid run down the back of my throat, coating it in a silky syrup.
The woven threads of the carpet become dense, and my grip on the glass tightens as I see him. Ed. Just as he was the very last time I saw him before he left for work—his crisp white shirt peeking out from underneath his sleek waistcoat paired with black pressed trousers.
“Red twenty-one.”
“All-in.”
“Beginner’s luck.”
I stumble, going over my ankle as the glass falls from my grip and bounces off the carpet. Ignoring the throbbing pain, I pick up my pace.
Shading his eyes with his hand, he glances around the room as if looking for me. I go to wave, but something heavy has replaced the glass that fell from my hand.
My feet sink into mud as the red carpet disappears beneath a sea of dense dirt. Squelching my toes into the new terrain, I glance up just as he spots me.
There’s a pull in my cheeks as the grin expands across my face, and I expect him to mirror my joy, warmth flourishing in his grey skin. Instead, his face drops and his eyes widen, his mouth shaping the word “No.”
I’m running towards him now, my strides sluggish through the sludge. Rain batters my skin as the lights disappear along with the invisible people, and a wind whips around my legs.
Unsure as to why he looks so afraid of me, I pull my arms up to wave, but the heavy object in my right hand makes my arm shake.
Feet sinking, I stop, taking in the object I’m holding.
Sleek, cold, and brutal, the gun rests in my palm as if it were made to fit.
Trembling now, whether from the weight of the gun or the weight of its significance, I’m unsure, but my hand isn’t steady, isn’t trained.
Rope binds Ed across his torso as if by invisible hands, his body bucking against unseen captors. I need to get to him, need to save him, but my feet are fully submerged in the thick clay.
His face is frantic, his mouth forming words that get caught in the wind and the lashing of ropes before they reach me. A wall appears around him, but it isn’t finished. Ed stands in the gaping hole as if the wall has devoured him.
The viscous coating in my throat lurches its way up into my mouth as an orangutan-like creature hauls over a crate filled with bricks. Another ape arrives, pushing a wheelbarrow laden with cement.
“Ed!” I call out, but no one appears to hear me. All I can see are the whites of Ed’s eyes as he stares at the bricks and mortar.
“No!” Lifting the gun, I point it at no one, my hand too unsteady to aim.
Tearing his eyes from the bricks, Ed stares at me before they close. His mouth doesn’t move, but I hear his words in my head.
“Do it.”
One of the apes takes up a trowel, digs deep into the cement, and slaps it onto the unfinished brickwork in front of Ed’s legs.
“No!” I repeat, waving the gun like it’s a flare.
Ed struggles against his bindings, his hair flopping in front of his eyes. The bricks continue to be stacked, the builders fast and efficient and the cement already drying. The wall gains height with every second.
His eyes find mine, and they beg me.
“Do it.”
But my finger slips on the trigger, my hand still shaking, the gun so fucking heavy. Tears drench my face along with the relentless rain, blurring my vision and obscuring my target.
I want to pull the trigger, need to pull it now, but my hands betray me. My heart is weak.
Ed’s mouth opens wide in a mute scream as the wall engulfs him. He silently screams, and I scream with him.
I scream and scream and scream.
“Wake up, angel. Wake up, now!”
My scream pierces the air, my lungs in overdrive, my body shaking.
I’m in my bed. In my room. Alone.
There’s no rain, no bricks, no gun, and no Ed.
And no Valdemar.