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The sound of screeching tires echoes in my ears. My mouth falls open, but the sound does not penetrate over the crushing metal vibrations and the blare of the horn. Hissing. Crackling. Popping. I scream, but I have no voice. My heart stops in my throat as I try to move my neck to the side. Then I see it…
Blood.
It is everywhere. On the dash. On the steering wheel. On the ejected air bags. I can’t breathe. The image debilitates me, and my stomach twists to violent heaving. Red crimson splashes the leather and broken glass. Liquid drips off my brow, hitting my eyelids and traveling in a stream down my cheeks. A coating of stickiness covers my exposed skin. I blink.
Darkness.
I can hear my name. Over and over again. But I am not there. Gone. The old me washed away with the blood of the tide.
The air reaches my hair before it does my lungs. Panic rises as I try to find my stability. My foot catches in fabric and—
Thump.
I fall forward onto the area rug—gasping for air. Finally, I can breathe. Like a cold slap on the face, it does the trick. I am awake. Alive. Tears pour in symbolic rivers down my flushed cheeks like déjà vu trickery. I close my eyes tight, trying to shut off the valve for the dam—just until I can function. Rapid footsteps resonate, and the vibrations of the floor shake my body.
“Angie! What happened? Are you okay?”
It takes me a few seconds to realize it is Zander’s frantic voice. But why is he here? His warm hands pull me up and wrap me in a blanket. I am in a safe cocoon.
“Angie, answer me, please,” he pleads. “You’re scaring me.”
He pushes me into the softness of a couch, and I start to remember my whereabouts. He reaches over me to turn on a lamp. I squeeze my eyes shut as they adjust to the sudden change in light.
He shakes me. “Angie?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I lie. “It was just a bad dream.” Only problem is, it’s not a dream. It is a memory. One I lived. It is not some fabrication my mind made up. “I must have fallen asleep here, huh?”
“You were so tired after gaming. I kept asking you if you wanted me to drive you home to finish sleeping and you kept groaning and telling me you just wanted to lie in a cloud. Do you want to talk about your dream?”
“No, I just want to go home. Please.”
Zander studies my face. I can tell he’s resisting the urge to argue or persuade me to talk. “Okay, grab your stuff and let’s go.”
We arrive at my townhouse a little bit before five a.m. I sneak into the house to not wake up Claire and tiptoe up the stairs. I am wide awake and on edge. Twitchy.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and tremble with the chill that overtakes my body. I feel sick. Nauseous. It’s as if my body wants to purge itself from the pain and memories that are stockpiling in my head.
I open my music app on my phone and select Linkin Park to play theHybrid Theoryalbum that got me through my pre-adolescent years—another dark era of angst and a turning point.
I put the phone on the counter of the sink and start the shower to get the water to warm. I strip down and get in, feeling the water cascade down my back, cleansing me. I saturate my hair with salon shampoo that Claire bought for me, enjoying the creamy smell of warm vanilla. I drop the bottle twice before being able to place it on the shelf’s ledge, my trembling hands making me clumsy.
I tremble as I towel dry and wrap my hair in a makeshift turban. I grip the side of the sink to keep from falling. But I am falling in the figurative sense, one spiraling ball of anxiety plummeting down a steep ravine.
I rush into the other room—completely naked except for my hair wrap—and snatch my purse from the chair. Going to the bathroom counter, I tip my purse over and expel all of the contents into a heap. I dig through to find the small plastic case. It’s the one that holds the key to my calm—like a protective treasure chest.
I take a deep breath and glance in the mirror to see the desperation and the pain reflected back. I shuffle on my unsteady feet, debating. My growing need outweighs all logical reasoning as to why I should stop. But I can’t. I press on the plastic case’s lever to pop open the lid. It doesn’t move.
Frustration elevates. I smack the case on the hard countertop. Nothing. The rattle sound inside taunts me. Beckons me. It begs me. My mouth salivates toward the memory of the bitter taste. I crave that nasty taste and crunch under my tongue and teeth.
My impatience grows as I try to pry the container open. My struggle drives my ambition. My want hijacks my logic.
With all my strength, I slam my palm over the case, popping it open with a loud cracking sound. My eyes close with delight, but when I open them my nightmare is in vivid, HD-quality color. Through the mess on the counter, the pills have scattered with the violent exit from their safe haven.
All seven of them.
Lost.
