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Ah what the hell, right? He asked for it, he can have it.
“I see a body,” I tell him. I take a sip of the burned tar that JC calls coffee and wince. “A woman, lying in the dirt by the river. She’s covered in blood.”
“Kinky,” he says, but sounds doubtful, like he can’t decide whether I’m being serious or not.
“She’s dead.” My head starts to spin, and I ja
m the heel of my hand into my forehead, with the vague notion that the pain might help. “There’s someone there…I think he killed her. He has an ax…” The pain spikes behind my eyes. “Shit.”
“That’s a realistic-sounding nightmare,” JC says quietly. “You sure it’s just a dream?”
And that, ladies and gentlemen is the question of the day, the one I’ve been trying to avoid.
“It has to be,” I mutter. “If it isn’t, then what the hell do I do?”
Pouring myself a drink, I raise the glass and swallow it down, hissing at the burn. Then I pour myself another. The bottle is running dry. When did I drink it all?
It’s a bad sign, needing a few drinks every night to build up the courage to go to bed, right? Let alone think about sleeping. With the pills not helping, I turned to whiskey and as the room starts to spin lazily, and my heart finally slows down, and my muscles uncoil, I wonder what I’m gonna do.
The cat licks my bare foot, making me jerk. I lean down and stroke her head, the velvety down fur tickling my fingertips.
Breathe, I tell myself.
Why does it feel like I’m sinking into mire instead of moving forward in my life? I have no excuse for feeling like this. My family’s great. My childhood was okay. I’m healthy, not stupid—well, except when it comes to girls, it seems. Girls like me.
Everything should be fine.
Everything is fine.
Fucking dreams. I thought they were going away, but surprise. They’re back with a vengeance, turning every night into hell.
I pour myself another glass, swallow it down. Rub at my chest. My heart’s racing again.
So I slam my fist against my ribs. “Stop. Fuck.”
That piece of news I saw on TV in that Memphis hospital… why did it hit me so hard? I don’t fucking get it. A body in the woods.
Like the body in my dreams. Is that the connection?
This is stupid. I’d be laughing myself silly if I wasn’t so goddamn tired. I’m not one of those tortured guys with the dark pasts. I was a damn happy kid. I’m a solid adult. I’ve had a good life.
In the quiet of the apartment—JC is out somewhere, probably having expensive drinks in an expensive exclusive club with his rich friends, telling them about his freakshow of a roommate—my phone rings, almost giving me a heart attack.
Awesome.
I take a few deep breaths, and look at the caller ID. It’s Gigi.
I stare at the display for a few long moments before I disconnect. I can’t talk to her right now.
And then the doorbell rings. Holy fuck. Seriously? She’s here?
Yep. I see her through the peephole. I consider pretending I’m not in, but she probably heard my phone ring. I have set the ringtone to “Twisted Mirror” by Pure X.
She loves that song.
Sighing, I open. “S’up, sis?”
“Heya, Merc. Won’t you invite your favorite sister inside?” Her eyes narrow on the bottle I’m carrying in my hand. “And pour me some of that.”
