Page 194 of In Somnis

My hands find the mattress, gripping the sheets.

“Are you sure…” This Man asks quietly, a grin tugging at his lips, “… that you woke up?”

I gasp for air⁠—

And open my eyes.

I’m lying on my back, with my hands on my sides. My legs are unlocked, but still, I lie there for a moment and simply breathe.

A false awakening.

Holy shit.

I’ve had patients describe them. The dream builds a perfect replica of you waking up, then it hands it to you so convincingly that you step right in. I’ve sat across from people trying to explain the horror of believing you’re conscious in the waking world, while you just woke up inside your mind. I’ve nodded, taken notes, and understood it clinically.

Now I understand it the other way.

This shit is terrifying, and This Man knows it.

He’s escalating.

But why?

I reach for my glasses, push them on, and check my watch.

4:44 a.m.

Flexing both hands, I feel the pins and needles of circulation returning to fingers that have been locked for too long, then check again.

4:44 a.m.

“Now I’m sure,” I mutter when I sit up slowly, put my feet on the floor, and let the cold of it come through my soles.

Then I get up because the alternative is lying back down, and lying back down is not something I’m willing to do after that mindfuck.

I change simply by muscle memory, running clothes, a headlamp, and shoes laced tight.

The cold hits my face the moment I’m outside, and I click my headlamp on.

This is the second morning This Man is back in my dreams.

The thought keeps pace with my footfall.

You lost your peace because you ran too fast, idiot.

I knew Lennon was skittish about what things meant, and I confirmed the date in her doorway. Then I kissed her in my kitchen to stop her from leaving, which was not in any plan I’d made for the afternoon, and then I put her on my lap, which was also not in the plan. Then I said, “Good girl,” and tore her stockings open, which was…

The path turns, and I turn with it.

She said casual. She said to take it slow, and I agreed. Then I sent one text two days ago asking if she wanted a ride home, and she said, “No, thank you.” I have not contacted her since because she needed space, because the correct, measured, professional response to someone asking for slow was to give them room rather than crowding them.

But the two days of silence have felt like pain, and I’m not saying metaphorically. My heart has been doing something since she texted back with, I have my own car that can only be described as physical, a persistent pressure slightly left of center, that makes you check your own pulse at odd moments to confirm the machinery is still running correctly.

It is. I’ve checked.

I don’t know what to do with a body that is apparently staging a protest over a text message.

The path runs alongside the park, and the streetlights are still on. My breath comes in even clouds in the cold air, and I run, thinking about mirrors, her voice, and the hand I couldn’t see pulling her backward.