Page 16 of In Somnis

My eyes drift back to the wall where Blondie’s sob came from.

Who the hell is she, anyway?

I don’t know her name, her story, nothing, which would be precisely how I prefer my neighbors, silent, hypothetical, and not knocking my door down or sobbing through the wall in the middle of the night.

“A heads-up would have been nice, Derek.”

I wonder why the English language is so damn selective about murder. We’ve got fancy Latin words for offing your mom—matricide—your dad—patricide—even siblings are covered with fratricide and sororicide.

But cousins? Nothing. Zilch.

It’s like the ancients looked at family reunions and thought, Nah, those guys are great. Nobody would ever want to kill their cousin. No need for a special term.

It’s fucking rude, is what it is.

If I ever snap and take out Derek, history is going to call it homicide, like some basic bitch crime.

Where’s the poetry in that?

I clap my hands once, and the nightlight on my nightstand clicks on with a soft glow. My gaze slides to my desk, and the newest pebble Melanie declared crystal. It joins the army of other stones lined up like tiny soldiers, all gifts from a five-year-old with pigtails, sticky fingers, and way too much enthusiasm.

The first one she gave me was a chip of white quartz she found in the parking lot and carried in her fist all the way to me because she said it looked like a tooth and she thought I’d like it. They’re absolutely clutter, but I just… haven’t had the time to throw them out yet.

Reaching blindly toward my nightstand, I pop open the drawer and pull out a lemon lollipop. My fingers tremble with leftover adrenaline as I unwrap it, shove it into my mouth, and let the sour punch me straight in the jaw. The familiar sting drags me a little closer to Earth and anchors me in my body. It’s borderline painful, and I love it.

Consciousness confirmed a second time.

I sigh, an irritated exhale that feels like it comes from my soul, and grope for my phone with the other hand while the lollipop clicks against my teeth. The screen lights up my face, stabbing my tired eyes.

4:44 a.m.

Too late to be awake, too early to be alive.

There are still a couple of messages from my parents sitting and waiting to be opened. And, as always, there are a few voice messages from Miller, the newest of which came in a few minutes ago.

“Really? Even at four in the goddamn morning?” I mutter around the lollipop, which now tastes slightly of dread.

Still, I tap the first voicemail.

It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.

Miller’s voice comes through, perky in a way only people who get a full eight hours of sleep and have no conscience can manage.

“Riiidge, buddy! I’m at that book conference I told you about, remember? And I just had a chat with your publisher. Great news! They are so excited for the next novel, but I need you to⁠—”

I hit the next one before he can finish.

“Riiidge, my guy! Still haven’t heard back from you yet. As I said, they need at least something to read in the next couple of weeks. A chapter, a scene, hell, even an outline you scribbled on a napkin. Anything. They know you’ve been one of the best horror authors in the genre for the last few years, and trust me, you’ve had more leverage than most, but⁠—”

Next message.

“Ridgy Ridge. Listen, I know it’s late… well, early for you, technically, but I need you to give us something. You signed a contract three months ago, remember? Call me back, Wells!”

I put the phone face down on my stomach and let out a groan that sounds like it crawled out of the deepest pit of hell. “Was one of the best horror authors,” I mutter, rolling my head to the side, my gaze landing on my overflowing bookshelves. “Past tense. Back when my dreams actually cooperated.”

Thanks to my parents, who own this fucking building but now live on the other side of the world, I have a decent two-room apartment with a kitchen-living combo, and this space, where my bed, desk, and some uneven stacks of sci-fi and horror novels, some mine, most not, are. A few figurines, a skull mug, a stock of old journals, the stack of… crystals.

The wall calendar has a big red circle around today’s date. Past Ridge wanted to make sure I remembered the deadline. As if I could ever forget.