Page 30 of Dreamscape Therapies

The maze wasn't trapping me.

It was leading me here.

To them.

I just don't know why yet.

Chapter Twelve

Vincent

The drive home is blissfully empty. Just me, the open road, and some early-2000s alt-rock station that's making me nostalgic for a time when my biggest problem was if my hair had enough product in it. Spoiler alert: it had too much product.

I should be replaying nightmares.

That's what I usually do on drives home. Catalog every horrifying detail. Wonder what fresh hell my subconscious will cook up next. Contemplate whether insanity is hereditary.

Instead, I'm thinking about Jay.

Jay's laugh.

Jay's adorable little nose wrinkle when he's annoyed.

Jay's expression of absolute horror when I told him about human serial killers.

It's pathetic, but for the first time in months, my head feels quiet and peaceful as if someone finally turned down the volume on the constant screaming in my brain.

Don’t get me wrong, I'm still tired, but it's normal tired like after a long day at work when you get to go home and sleep like a functional human being.

Wild concept.

When I get home, I toss my keys onto the kitchen island and flip on the lights. My tiny apartment greets me with all the charm of a hamster cage whose owner died several weeks ago. Dirty laundry is piled next to the recliner like a textile monument to my depression. Empty beer bottles decorate the counter. My houseplant looks more dead than alive, which is impressive considering it's a succulent.

You're supposed to be able to neglect those things.

Apparently, even cacti have standards. Cactuses? Cacties? What’s the plural for that word?

I grab a beer from the fridge and take a long pull before setting it down next to its fallen brothers. The responsible thing would be to clean, but the Vincent thing would be to collapse into my chair and pretend tomorrow doesn't exist.

Jay's voice still echoes in my head. Calm your mind before bed.

"Next time he'll tell me to align my chakras and drink green smoothies," I mutter.

Still, I guess I can pretend to be a functional adult for one night. For him.

I do the laundry, dumping an entire basket into the machine and adding way too much soap because I've Cnever actually read the instructions. The machine rattles ominously before water starts filling the drum.

Next, I take care of my plant, or, more accurately, I apologize to my plant while gently placing it in the trash can.

"I'm sorry, DJ Turnip. You deserved better than me."

Turnip does not respond, probably because Turnip is dead.

Once my plant has received its emotional burial, I return to the kitchen and stare at my beer. Jay would most likely tell me alcohol before bed is a bad idea.

And he'd be right, the smug bastard.

With a sigh, I dump it down the sink and toss the empties into recycling.