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Fuck!
How could a man so beautiful become so deadly?
I peeked at the alarm clock sitting on my bedside table. It was the only thing on the table since I had thrown the lamp during a nightmare last month, shattering it to pieces. The red numbers read 4:45 AM.
I pulled my hands through my sweat-dampened hair and stood up. Wobbling to the bathroom, I flipped on the light and the faucet. I needed a cool towel to wipe the sweat off my fevered skin.
I coughed. I also needed a large glass of water. It felt like I had been screaming for hours. Could a throat be bruised from the inside? Was that even possible?
A film of grime coated my tongue. Bending over the sink, I spit. Brown-tinged saliva merged with specs of dirt as it flowed down the sink drain.
Glancing into the mirror, I paused. Small red marks marred the span of my neck. I held my breath and then turned my chin to the side.
The red marks were streaks across my throat. No, not streaks–handprints.
I must’ve done this to myself.
Swallowing quickly, I laid my palm over my neck. The marks didn’t match. I turned my hand the other direction. It overlay the red handprint on my neck—except it didn’t overlap it perfectly. The red palm print was too large to be my own. I ripped my hand away and darted out of the bathroom.
Turning on every light in the small bungalow, I paced in a circle, then looked down.
No one is here! You are alone and safe. Very, very alone.
I threw on clothes and sprinted out of the house. I stuffed my credit card and house key into the small pocket of my leggings.
Breathe. Just breathe. It’s almost sunrise… Nothing truly horrific happens in broad daylight.
After two blocks of frenzied walking, I looked down at my feet.
They were still bare.
My socks were balled in my left fist, and my running shoes danged by their laces in my right hand.
Sitting down on the sidewalk, I donned my socks and laced my shoes.
Dreams are just dreams. They aren’t real. It’s your mind doing this to yourself. This is just my mind’s odd way of processing things. It is okay. There is not a sexy gray-eyed man out get you.
I need to breathe.
That’s right. It was a bad dream, which normal people have all the time.
The handprint is because I grabbed my neck during the night. My hand doesn’t match because the skin is swollen and inflamed. If I look in the mirror again later, it’ll probably look just like my palm and fingers.
Inhale: one, two three.
The door was locked. No one can get into the apartment. No one can get into my mind. Except, what if someone could get into my mind? Then I would never be safe… ever. No amount of daylight or public places could change that.
Exhale: one, two, three.
After five blocks of panic, I approached the closest coffee shop, Seaside Coffee.
It was a small cafe, owned by a middle-aged Filipino man who woke up at 3:30 every morning and closed the store by noon. He ran the shop himself, even roasting his own beans. I had been here so many times that I knew everything on the menu by heart. The amiable owner, Rico, even updated me on new pastries just to see if I would be interested.
The pale wooden door jangled as I pushed it open. Only one tiny woman and two men stood ahead of me waiting to order. The two young men wore military uniforms. Both looked even more blurry-eyed than me. The tall one kind of looked like Logan, if I squinted a little. Or maybe I just wanted him to be Logan.
I need to focus on the present problem, not the man I want to appear in front of me.
“It’s fucking ridiculous that we all have to muster at 6:00 AM on Sunday because two dumbasses can’t show up for night watch,” the tall, blue-eyed guy groaned.
