Page 19 of In Somnis

She’s afraid. The same way I am.

I have stared into these eyes for five years from this exact position, unable to move or speak, to apologize. I don’t know her name, don’t know her face, but I know the light blue of her irises in the intimate way you come to know something shared for a thousand hours—every fleck, every ring of darker color at the edge.

I would know them anywhere.

I look for them everywhere.

I never find them, of course.

Finding them means being in a car and moving too fast in the rain.

My breath stutters, then I take it back under control.

I know this is an illusion. I know it. This is not real. This is my subconscious clinging to what happened, nothing more. I try to tell her I’m sorry anyway, but my mouth won’t open.

Pulling my focus inward, I search for the smallest fracture in the paralysis, any point of leverage I can exploit. I try to wiggle my pinky finger enough to remind my nervous system that I’m awake, and my body still belongs to me.

When I manage a tiny twitch, the light above me dims in a way that feels deliberate. Shadows stretch along the ceiling behind the hovering eyes, but they don’t behave correctly. They linger where light should erase them, pool at the corners, and seep outward in slow increments.

Of course.

He’s never original.

The room turns heavy and thickening as if the air itself has gained weight and is pressing down on my chest, pinning me harder as my mind scrambles for footing.

My skin prickles, awareness spreading along my arms and ribs, a phantom touch that skitters, pauses, and shifts again, too light to be painful, but it’s everywhere at once. I can’t look away from the eyes and darkness above me or turn my head to confirm or deny what my body already knows.

Spiders are crawling all over me.

I want to thrash and scream, but all I can do is breathe harder.

A laugh comes from the corner of the room, and I try to anchor to his presence, to turn my attention away from the crawling sensation before it tips into full panic. I still can’t move my head, but I don’t need to look to know he’s there.

He is every goddamn time, watching and enjoying how my control fractures under the weight of his doing.

The darkness keeps creeping in, and the edges of my vision blur. The light blue eyes remain, the only thing fully illuminated now, locked on mine, pleading and accusing all at once, asking a question I don’t know how to answer and refuse to try.

Somewhere, in a place I was never meant to reach, This Man noticed me, and he hasn’t let go since.

But after almost five years of this waking hell, I’m done giving him the reaction he wants.

I turn my attention back to my physical body, back to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, again, again, and again. Then I squeeze my eyes shut, cutting off the blue-eyed stare and choosing the darkness behind my own lids over the one he’s feeding me. The crawling sensation flares along my skin, his laughter curling closer, but I don’t open my eyes.

Not for him.

Slowly, the paralysis loosens its grip. A few more stretched, agonizing moments pass, and the crawling sensation finally dissolves. When I open my eyes again, hers have vanished, too, along with the pressure, the shadows, and him.

I gasp and roll onto my side, dragging in air. The sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat, and my muscles ache as though I’ve spent the entire night braced for impact. Reaching blindly for the nightstand, I grab my glasses and shove them on, squinting at the red glow of the digital clock.

4:44 a.m.

I look away, glancing at the brightly lit ceiling, then check the time again.

It stays the same.

This is waking life.

I let my eyes fall shut and rest my forehead against the mattress, counting my breaths until my pulse slows to something manageable, careful not to lie there long enough for the quiet to turn on me.