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“I love you,” I said lamely. Then I burst into tears. It wasn’t fair to Vic that I was crying now. Not after everything he’d done last night. I was exhausted and spent, though; I couldn’t restrain the onslaught of tears.
Vic picked up my hand and held it gently in his. “Hey,” he said, “I know you do. That doesn’t change what happened though. I’m angry, yes. But you and me? We’re good.?
? He pulled me into him with his black and never-ending eyes.
I was acutely aware that he was the only person who could make me feel beautiful even when I was hungover and covered in vomit.
“Do you understand?” Vic pressed.
Sheepishly, I nodded. “Yes. We’re good,”
“Good,” Vic said, relaxing back into the couch. He stared into space for a few beats before saying, “I’m gonna go back to sleep. Deep cleaning vomit is exhausting.”
I couldn’t tell if it was meant as a joke or not, but it still cut. As it should. I nodded, acknowledging I was going to give him the space to sleep. After a quick detour to the kitchen pantry, I walked back up the stairs and headed straight to the bathroom. It took two shampoos complete with multiple rinses with apple cider vinegar to get the smell of vomit out of my hair.
Dean was alive, only he wasn’t alive. He was undead. I was back in Seattle, living with my mom and dad. I was a child, only I wasn’t. I was my normal, adult self, but I was wearing toddler clothing: a cute little dress with bows.
I had never worn this type of clothing, even as a toddler. Why was I wearing it now?
We were all eating breakfast together: me in my dress with bows, my mom, my dad, and undead Dean. Mom was beautiful and healthy; her bipolar depression hadn’t taken her yet.
“Have some more juice, little Lennox,” my father said, pouring some orange juice. But the juice wasn’t orange, it was black. I gulped it down anyway. It tasted like nothing.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I said. My voice was small like a child’s; it sounded way too creepy coming from my big, adult body.
Everything became perverted: The table grew long and oblong, and my parents grew bigger and bigger until they were skyscrapers above me. Dean became the sky above me, his rotting skin falling on me like rain.
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” my mom’s warped voice was barely intelligible. I looked toward her. She was a decayed, caricature of her open-casket self.
I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I took a deep hitching breath to fill my lungs, but no air was entering. I clutched my throat. I was suffocating.
“Hey, does my face smell?”
“What? Mom?” I shifted around, feeling trapped. It was so bright. I couldn’t see anything. Where was my mom? Was Dean still above me? I kicked at the thing trapping me. I couldn’t get out!
“Lenny? What’s wrong?”
Was that Vic? What’s happening to me? Panic had set in and I was thrashing to get free.
“Mom!” I screamed. I finally saw her: she was hanging from the ceiling. She needed my help!
“Lenny! Lenny, it’s Vic.”
Vic’s voice punctuated my panic. It was calm and in control. I stopped struggling and took time to gather my wits. I was in bed. It was morning. I had tangled myself in the sheets. Vic was with me. Vic would always be with me.
It had been a nightmare. A heart poundingly disturbing one, but still just a nightmare. As my eyes adjusted to the bright, morning light I could see Vic’s concerned face hovering inches above mine.
“Howdy,” I said, letting out a breath that felt like a million years’ worth of suffering and fear.
It was a very important breath.
Vic eyed me wryly. “What were you dreaming about?”
I sat up in bed. It didn’t feel like a nightmare so much as it felt like a fucked up memory. I scrunched my face, trying to figure out a way to get out of talking about it.
“What were you talking about?” I asked, remembering his voice in my dream.
“I thought you were awake,” Vic said, his voice laced with apology. “You were talking. In your sleep, I guess.”
