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I swallow the tight knot in my throat and peek up at her.
“Just because you’re dreaming doesn’t mean shit.” The smile fades and she stares at the bartender as he pours a glass of some clear liquor for Mr. Cross.
The music seems to die down, everything except my mother’s voice turning to white noise.
“At one point, I thought he loved me,” my mom tells me, staring down at the drink on the bar.
It takes me a moment to realize the smudge on the glass is blood. My gaze darts to her hand, to the broken nails and the bruises on her wrist.
My heart pounds, the anxiety and fear rising as her voice hardens and she picks up the drink. “Men don’t love, Chloe.” She sets the glass against her lips, but she doesn’t drink. Instead, she stares at the man behind the bar. She stares down the bartender who doesn’t see either of us. “Don’t you ever believe that shit.”
I grip the barstool tighter, feeling the blood draining from me as she looks me in the eyes, her own pale and lifeless. “Don’t believe him, Chloe Rose.”
I wakeup drenched in sweat and alone. Trembling, I can hear the faint sounds of someone outside. I can’t help getting out of bed, my heart still racing as I check to see who it is.
Peeking through the blinds, it’s just two guys walking down the street. Guys I’ve seen before on the porch of a house down the street. They look like they’re on their way back from the liquor store, carrying bags full of large glass bottles. That would explain the noises I heard in my sleep.
I’m still shaking as I turn from the window and slowly walk back to the bed, my mind racing with the memory of the dream. Of the bar. Of Dave.
I reach out to Bastian’s side of the bed, but the sheets are cold.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I walk to the bathroom, my bare feet padding against the cold floor. The door’s partially open and it’s dark inside, but still, I push it open wide and flick on the light.
The brightness makes me wince, and I find it empty.
“Bastian?” I call out for him even though I know he’s not here. His place is empty.
Where the hell is he? The clock on the stove reads 3:46. “Where the fuck is he?” I mutter, still breathless from the fear that woke me. I’d rather focus on Bastian than on the night terror, but when I get to my phone that I’d left on the coffee table, my blood runs cold.
Dave now too. They’re going one by one.
I stare at the text message, reading it over and over.
Dave is dead.
I dreamed of it. And he’s dead. I’m so cold. I can’t feel anything but the horror I felt from the nightmare.
I don’t know how I’m still standing. The scream of fear is silent in my throat, but it’s there.
Tears prick my eyes and I can’t control the shaking. Adrenaline and the need to run kick in before I can do anything. It all happens so slowly, each level of despair falling on its own. Like dominoes. And between each blow, I reread the text.
Dave now too. They’re going one by one.
My knees collapse, and I drop the phone, pressing my hands together and begging them to stop shaking.
It was a dream. She’s not real.
It’s not real. Tell me the text isn’t real. It’s not true.
It’s just some asshole fucking with me. There’s no truth to it.
I swallow each of the thoughts, pushing my head into the carpet and trying to steady my head from spinning with the fear racing through me.
But how can it be a coincidence? It can’t. It can’t be.
It’s not real.
“Bastian,” I cry out for him like the crutch he is. The panic is slow to set in.
