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The man on top of me freezes as I say his name.
My heart pounds. I’ve imagined so many fucking times a person I love coming back to life. That I got it wrong. That they weren’t dead, just gone—hiding, waiting until the threat was gone to reappear. I’ve dreamed of this moment so many times. But every time I did, I would wake up. And I would realize the dream wasn’t real.
This feels real.
I feel the rain dripping down on top of us. The wind knocking through our bodies. His weight on top of me.
But that doesn’t mean anything. All of my dreams before were vivid. All of them I thought were real.
This is just a dream, I tell myself. Don’t get your hopes up. The devastation that will come when you wake up will be all too much.
The man doesn’t answer.
Maybe I was wrong? Maybe I’m imagining things because I hoped so much for any person I cared about to come back? I’m putting other people’s faces on my enemies.
No.
I know in my heart the man on top of me is Langston.
I just don’t know yet if this is a dream or reality.
“Langston,” I say more affirmatively.
I loosen my grip on his neck, trying to show I don’t want to hurt him.
The man on top of me shows me no such mercy. He jabs his elbow hard into my stomach and then slices a knife across my neck before I can react.
The cut isn’t deep, just enough to spill blood. But it still hurts like a motherfucker.
Langston turns, looking me in the eyes.
I grin. He’s here. He’s alive. And I know from the intensity of the cut that this is real. This isn’t a dream.
“Langston,” I breathe, as tears stream. I never thought I’d see him again. And the emotions I feel overwhelm me. “You’re alive.”
“And you aren’t real,” Langston says.
He begins to jab the knife into my neck again, but this time I block him, even through my tears.
“Langston, it’s me, Enzo.”
He shakes his head. “Enzo is dead.”
I kick Langston off of me, and hold my hands out cautiously, like I’m trying to approach a lion about to attack me. Langston still grips the knife in his hand. I don’t doubt he has a gun he will pull on me soon.
I don’t want to shoot or stab him. I just need to knock him out of whatever nightmare he is going through.
I look him over for the first time as the rain softens around us. He’s wearing jeans heavily stained black and red. His black shirt has more holes in it than not. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. His hair is ragged and growing around his ears. But none of that is what worries me—it’s the look in his eyes.
Langston has given up. He thinks everyone he loves is dead—I know the feeling. He looks like complete devastation and death. There is no light behin
d his eyes. No reason to live. Not even for revenge. He’s just going through the motions. He’s not really here.
He’s with Liesel, and Kai, and Zeke. His heart is gone. He thinks I’m a figment of his imagination. His dreams playing tricks on him again—I can’t really be here.
“This isn’t a dream, Langston. This is real,” I shout over the howling wind and rain never ceasing. The ship continues to burn around us, and soon will fall to the depths of the ocean.
“Liar. You’re dead,” Langston says, his voice relaxed and monotone.
