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Ignoring the sting of the crunching glass beneath my feet as another piece slices my flesh, I pause outside my bedroom door. The room is brighter now, no longer that low, dimmed light I keep on during my sleep hours because the thought of total darkness creeps me out.
No. Now, it’s lit up, and the pitter-patter of rain hitting the windowpane is loud. Eerie.
“Get yourself together and read the note. I probably hit the switch in my rush.” Maybe I also forgot and put it there myself. Maybe I’ve started sleepwalking, a possible side effect? “That has to be it, due to my irregular sleeping patterns and new when-needed medication.”
My low muttering doesn’t wake up the now passed-out Frenchie in my arms, and I place him down on my bed before walking toward the large painting. I can’t look away from the neatly folded note. I almost trip in my determined state to reach it, and when I do, a near knee-buckling sensation overthrows my senses when I read the message within, written in a perfect penmanship that is familiar yet foreign.
Everything around me shakes. Or maybe it’s me.
And at this point, I don’t know.
All I know, beyond the hard pounding inside my chest and the sudden bout of dread, are those four words...
Happy Birthday, Pretty Girl.
3
Gabriella
Every single muscle in my body tenses, my breathing becoming erratic as I struggle to see anything past those words: pretty girl. Because immediately it’s his voice I hear in my head crooning it, that gravelly timbre that accompanies me every night. It swirls around me, chokes me, and I swallow hard—bite back the screams that want to escape but don’t.
Instead, I wheeze. It’s the only sound that comes out as reality merges with my dream. For a few seconds, I’m there again and watching the stillness—how the objects glimmer in the darkness, beckoning me to stay.
The blood sings. It also calls to me.
And more than anything, that scares me. Those two words cause my heart to clench while my body betrays me, and I sway as my fingers tighten on the piece of paper. Where I squeeze, it crumbles, which causes my finger to move and expose the two extra letters I’d missed in my freak out.
L. Y.
Pretty girly.
Happy birthday, pretty girly.
Jesus, I’m a mess. And a bit crazy.
Batshit.
Flipping the paper over, I see the familiar stationery and a small laugh slips through my parted lips. It’s not in amusement, but concern. How did I miss her being here? But more importantly, how did she get in?
“It was just Elise.” This causes a different case of unease to settle in the pit of my stomach. That’s not the norm for her. Not for someone who needs acknowledgement over her every deed. Moreover, for as much as she annoys me with her pushy need to micromanage and I-know-better-because-I’m-older-by eight-years mentality—trying to make my career hers—she’s the only person in Seattle I consider a friend. “Crap! The key. I gave her a key for emergency situations, and she must’ve used it to surprise me.”
I don’t know how to feel about that, but breathing becomes easier. Everything does within a few minutes, and after tossing her birthday wishes aside, I crawl up the bed to lie beside Mr. Pickles while ignoring the cuts on my feet. I ignore the blood more than likely staining my sheets while his small body snuggles closer, his cold nose rubbing against my arm.
“Momma’s being paranoid again, buddy.” He doesn’t answer, but he does lick my forearm. “I know. I know.” A small headbutt comes next. “A good night’s sleep would do me wonders.” This earns me a grunt. “Double my dose, you say?”
His silence is response enough, and I half turn, blindly opening the bedside drawer where a bottle of Melatonin and the meds my doctor prescribed sit.
Both are for sleeping. Both will knock me out, but the one I pop the top of will leave me shaky tomorrow. Will make me nauseous, but I dry-swallow two and flip the consequences off.
I’ll deal with it whenever I wake up.
“Calm your breathing and empty your thoughts,” I whisper to the silent room and close my eyes, forcing myself to ignore the painting and the dream I’ll more than likely fall right back into. “One sheep. Two sheep. Three...”
The more I count, the more I begin to settle deeper into my sheets, welcoming the warmth as the minutes tick by and my conscious mind finally begins to rest. One minute I’m awake, and the next I’m sitting inside a mindless abyss where nothing happens.
No dreams. No voices.
Just rest.
