This isn’t just dreams, or paranoia, or stress. This is an invasion. My hands won’t stop shaking. I think of burning it—again—but I don’t.
Some part of me, the same part that doesn’t run when a monster says he wants ownership, wants to see what happens next. That scares me more than anything else.
The sun’s already up when I drag myself out of bed. It feels wrong, too bright, like the light knows what I’ve seen and is trying too hard to look innocent. My skin itches with sweat, sleep, and something else I don’t have words for. Something that clings like soot. The sketchbook stays closed, I shove it under the bed, and head for the shower.
I stay under the water too long, letting it scald my skin until the heat blurs into something numb. I scrub hard, as if I can scrape away the memory clinging there, peel myself down to something untouched. It doesn’t work. The image stays — that blade, those eyes — etched deeper with every pass of my hands. Betrayal stares back at mefrom inside my own head, carved by my goddamn hand as though it had always been waiting in my bones.
By the time I’m at the bar, I’m running on caffeine and spite. It’s too early for my shift, but I don’t care. I need noise. Movement. Something to drown out the silence that’s been nesting in my brain. I unlock the front door and flip on the lights. It smells like lemon cleaner and old beer. The usual.
The stillness doesn’t last. By late afternoon, the place is half full as regulars drift in and new faces check the chalkboard specials. I busy myself behind the bar, pouring drafts, stacking glasses, moving like muscle memory’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“Rough night?” Benny, the barback, asks.
I grunt. “Don’t start.”
He smirks and throws me a rag anyway. I almost start to believe I’m okay. Almost. Until I see him.
Not Riven, the man in the mansion who wants to own me and stalks my nightmares. This guy’s younger. Thinner. Hair like dried straw, eyes a bland brown. Late thirties, maybe. He slides onto a stool at the far end of the bar like he’s trying not to be noticed, which immediatelyputs me on edge. “Can I get a Coke?” he asks, voice too even—no eye contact. I nod, grab a glass, and when I turn back, he’s watching me. I set the drink in front of him. “You good?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away.
“You smell different than I expected.” The words are soft. Casual. They drop like lead. My stomach clenches.
“What did you just say?”
He blinks, slow, then shrugs. “Just wanted to see you in person.” The next second is a blur. My hand slams down on the bar.
“Out.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says quickly, hands up. “I just needed to see…”
“I said get the fuck out.”
People are looking now. Benny’s moving in behind me. The guy stands, awkward and twitchy. “Sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to…”
“Go. Now!”
He backs out the door, eyes still on me. I just stand there, vibrating with fury and something colder. He didn’t look or act dangerous. The things he said, and the way he said them? It felt like a thread tugging somethingloose in my chest. Like another line just got crossed. He was the second person to say this to me.
Benny waits until the guy’s gone before asking, “What was that?”
I shake my head. “No clue. I’m not in the mood.” He nods, smart enough not to push. I go back to pouring drinks and wiping counters. Pretending I’m not unraveling from the inside. The truth is, I’m starting to feel like the world is watching me—or worse—waiting for me.
I need to pretend it didn’t happen. Focus on the here, the now. Benny’s working the back. Two girls are flirting with each other in the corner booth. Old man Crispin’s posted up near the jukebox, drinking the same IPA he’s ordered every night since the Bush administration. It’s almost enough to trick myself into normal.
Almost.
“Hey, Red.” The familiar voice comes from directly across the bar. I look up and spot Jesse, one of the weekday regulars; late twenties, shaved head, always tips in exact change. Friendly in a quiet kind of way. He has called me Red since the first time he stepped into this bar. It’s as if having red hair is my entirepersonality…and honestly, I don’t mind. “You okay?” he asks, squinting. “You were… kinda out of it the other night.” Making my stomach drop.
“What do you mean?”
“Couple nights ago,” he says. “You were working, but you didn’t seem like you were here. Didn’t look at anyone. Poured a vodka soda into someone’s beer. Said you were fine, but…” he trails off with a shrug, like he’s not sure if he’s remembering right, or if he’s about to get yelled at. I freeze. “I wasn’t here,” I say carefully.
His brows knit, a faint crease cutting between them as his gaze searches mine. “You were,” he says, the words slow, like he’s trying to fit them into place. “I swear…you served me.”
No. I couldn’t have been. I wasn’t. I know I wasn’t here. That was the night after the dream. The night after the first drawing of the blade… “I wasn’t here,” I say again, firmer this time.
He looks uncomfortable now. “Sorry. Maybe I’m wrong.” He isn’t.
My pulse kicks. I excuse myself and duck into the walk-in cooler out the back, where it’s freezing and quietenough to think…or try to. I don’t black out. I don’t sleepwalk. I drink, sure, but not that night. So how in the hell could I have been here?