Page 14 of For Fillies and Monsters

The dream is vivid in my mind—the memory it depicts. I feel desperate and crazed, ready to shred every thread from the fabric if it means I can escape; if it means I can breathe again. But my skin is too sweaty, the sheet too tightly wound around me.

I scream again, my desperate plea falling on dead ears.

I pull again on the sheet, and it loosens enough for me to slide my arms out. I sit up, scooting out of its suffocating grip, and suck in deep, stale breaths. I pull my knees to my chest, my head falling forward. I fixate on the sound of the air conditioner to calm my sobs. The cool air pours over my naked sweat-slicked skin, and goosebumps erupt. But I would rather freeze to death than cover myself with that sheet again.

At least for tonight.

My tears are still sticky on my cheeks when I look around the room again. My heart still pounds, but I remain focused on sucking air in through my nose and out through my mouth, counting backward from fifteen. I don’t have a fucking clue if it actually helps, but I watched a YouTube video on how to self-soothe a panic attack,once.I didn’t exactly grow up in a family that believed in mental health conditions or looked fondly on therapy—it was a joke. Something for people with something really wrong with them. Which was never us, never me.

Except, I’m not so sure anymore. What if it helped?

I groan and fold into a tighter ball—it’s too fucking early for this thought process, and I repeat the mantra I’ve used for years when waking from the same memory.

He isn’t here. I am safe.

He isn’t here. He can’t hurt me.

He isn’t here. I am safe.

But no matter how many times I say the words to myself, they ring hollow. I hate this house, hate the silence of the land around it. It had never been a safe place to me before—the acres of sandy ground were a dooming barrier between me and anyone who might have heard my cries. Sitting here, I feel haunted by their ghosts.

I look out the window, the night a black blanket over the golden grasses growing in every direction. To some, it might seem peaceful.

To me, it feels like I am already in a grave, buried, and screaming for someone to find me.

FOUR

STETSON

March 16th, 2024

“This isa mighty beautiful house and property you got yourself.”

I squint into the blinding afternoon sun to take in the blonde cowboy—can I really call him a cowboy when he looks more like a GQ model standing in the driveway?He screamspretty boyin his pressed jeans, white polo, cream baseball cap, and brown…are those loafers?

No, not a cowboy.

I shake my head from left to right, sighing heavily for emphasis, my ponytail swishing with the movement. He squints at me, confusion written between his blue eyes, and I realize I didn’t answer his question.

“It needs some work.” I look down at my faded jeans, tucked white v-neck, and scuffed brown cowboy boots. “Do I need to get more dressed up or something?” I hate feeling like I’m underdressed. He waves me off with a flick of his wrist.

“I don’t mind being the prettier one of us two.” Nathan chuckles, a teasing grin on his face. I straighten.

Is that supposed to be a joke? A dig? A compliment?

I roll my lips together, feeling self-conscious, and stuff myhands into my pockets. I ignore the comment altogether and head down the wooden steps toward his shining red pickup.

“Nice pickup,” I say, drawing closer. This is awkward as fuck, and I plan to properly berate Dale next time I see her. He smiles, his lips splitting into a wide grin, and pats the glistening hood lightly.

“She is, isn’t she? I got it as a bonus from the dealership my dad owns while I was working there this off season.” It’s a generic statement, I suppose, but sounds more like a love confession as he looks at the truck, all doe-eyed and awestruck.

I blow an impatient raspberry with my lips, the sound breaking whatever trance he’s in, and motion at the truck door with my hand. He grins.

“Hop in!” He pats the hood again and rounds the front of the trunk, gingerly pulling the driver’s door open.

Guess he doesn’t open doors—what a gentleman.

Maybe he’s too lovesick over his pickup to notice I am waiting.Yeah, not a fat fucking chance. I yank the door open and scramble inside, the brown leather creaking as I settle in. Nathan inhales sharply next to me, and I look over at him to see what’s wrong. He leans across me, his hand extended to the door in panic, as I go to close it.

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