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He dropped his chin, and his lips brushed mine. A slight kiss. Barely a caress.
Oh yes… this was what I wanted.
His temptingly warm lips whispered foreign words before returning to mine. The sweet taste of his mouth fought for supremacy against the burning in my mind.
I could feel myself lean into his kiss. My hands went to touch him, to sweep the black hair away from his face. I wanted to see the face of the man who had haunted me for years. I had tried so many times, but the darkness always veiled his face.
His arm snaked around my back. His blazing palm pressed me closer to his bare chest, and I kept reaching for him. I needed more. I wanted more.
The cold edge of the blade glided up my arm. The dagger’s edge brushed over my delicate skin. He stroked the tip over my shoulder, teasing me with the blade.
His lips hovered over mine as the silver edge continued its path up my body. My tongue swept out to his lips on its own volition. He withdrew his mouth from mine and firmly held the tip of the blade over my heart…
Cracking my eyes, one tiny fragment at a time, the room appeared dim. Only the small streetlight sent a tiny glow into the room.
I squinted into the darkness of my apartment and ran my hands down my arms, over my face, and then onto my chest. Searching my body for damage, for blood, or, worse, burn marks. I pulled off my loose shirt and peered down at my chest, my bare stomach, my pale feet.
Nothing.
My skin seemed as it had before, not a mark or a speck of blood to be found. As always, the violence and the man were just in my head.
My hands came to rest over my chest, and I drew in deep, long, breaths.
It’s getting worse. Damn it. I was doing everything right. How can it be getting worse?
Gingerly, grabbing onto the edge of my desk, I pulled myself to my feet. My head buzzed with tiny black dots. I stood as a wave of bile began moving up my throat from the pit of my stomach.
Firmly shutting my mouth, I darted to the bathroom and slid to my knees on the cold tile floor. My body rejected every piece of food from my stomach. I retched and gagged on the taste of saltwater. It burned down the back of my nose and throat.
Shaking, I flushed the contents and fought to take deep breaths. I clutched the edge of the sink and wiped my mouth.
Small licks of excitement tickled down my neck. Despite the purge, I was exhilarated.
You’re psychotic, that’s why.
Three years, four therapists later, and I was mentally deteriorating. They say it’s normal to have nightmares after a tragedy, but this didn’t feel like post-traumatic stress. Not when I wanted the dreams because they were the closest thing to pleasure I’d had in three years. But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted the dreams. I felt so freaking good afterwards. I never told that part to the therapists. They would officially lock me in an institution if I told them they made me feel oddly powerful despite the fact I kept dying in them.
Pull yourself together.
I reached for my toothbrush, squeezed out heaping layers of paste, and scrubbed the essence of ocean and vomit from my mouth. When I met him in the sea, I always tasted the salt water afterwards.
I turned my head, checking for soreness from passing out on the floor.
Little pulses erupted from my temples with the movement. The headache would subside, eventually. It always took time for the nightmares to ease from my mind. The saltwater wasn’t so bad. Even the ache from the burning light would fade quickly, but the tingle of anticipation, that always took the longest to leave.
I stared back into the mirror.
What is wrong with me?
I spit into the sink and bent my head to the faucet. The fresh water was a relief on the back of my burning throat. Cupping the water in my hands, I soaked my face and neck. I yanked the towel off the rack and roughly dried my face, before heading to the tiny, overfilled closet. I grabbed my worn shoes and slipped them on, convincing myself that sleep wouldn’t be possible for at least a few more hours. Turning Eric Church up loud on my headphones, I locked the door behind me and stepped out into the cool night air.
I headed toward the ocean to run my favorite path to the pier and prayed the music would soothe away my incessant thoughts once again. It was too late for any other neighborhood joggers to be out, but there would probably still be a few souls left wandering by the water.
I didn’t belong in this particular neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes. Despite everything that happened, I couldn’t resist the smell of the ocean breeze. I should hate it for everything it took from me. It took Jason, the one man I’d ever loved. Yet, it seemed wrong to be far away from the water. The water was my first love, until Jason. A part of me would never be whole without either. It was why the neighborhood of Ocean Beach remained home. I needed to be close to the memories of him, and where we fell in love.
The moon was hidden by the clouds. A few stars peeked out over the coast as I made my way to the shoreline. The city lights dampened the views of the constellations, but it didn’t make the night sky less blissful to stare at. The hope of seeing a falling star never faded, even after becoming an adult. The stars made the long night runs even more soothing.
If Jason saw the waves tonight, he’d be begging me to join him for a nighttime surf. Screw the danger–the perfect swells under the stars would be too much for him to miss. And he would lure me into the cold water with sweet kisses and promises of a night I’d never forget.
