Page 8 of Crash & Burn

I turn the shower off and put on my robe, wishing for the kind of warmth that I will never feel again.

I moisturize my body with my coconut-scented lotion, and then head into my bedroom before putting on my silk pajamas that keep me cool on these summer nights in an apartment with no central air. The building is old, and it has been redone to look more modern with new appliances and updated décor—but still no AC.

These pajamas also come in handy because most nights, I wake up with a layer of sweat over my body from trying to chase a memory in my dreams, or run away from one in a nightmare.

My therapist has suggested sleeping aids, but I’m not interested. The self-loathing side of me thinks I deserve chasing the dreams, and running from the nightmares because I’m alive to do it. The healthy side of me knows that they are a part of healing, and they will eventually fade.

All of me just hopes that one night, I’ll finally get the song out of my head.

***

“No!”

My eyes snap open as I scream into a dark room. My blackout curtains only let a sliver of light shine through. I feel my hair sticking to my forehead, and my arms are slick with sweat. My comforter somehow landed on the floor, and my sheets are twisted up at the bottom of my bed, yet I still feel like I’m boiling.

I sit up to gather myself, trying to catch my breath.

After a few seconds, I lay back down and close my eyes, trying to remember the memory that played out in my dream tonight.

“How was it?” I ask.

“Fine,” Nico says, but he doesn’t seem fine.

There’s something off about him.

Before I can ask what’s wrong, he looks at me. His brown hair shines almost blonde under the afternoon sun, and his bright blue eyes look conspicuous, as if he knows something I don’t know.

“I almost finished the song,” he explains. “But, I can’t quite figure out the last part.”

“Can I hear it?” I ask, hopeful this will be one of those times he says yes.

He smirks at me, an all-knowingness in his features, before he leads me to a bench in the middle of the sand and takes his guitar out.

“Well, it is for you,” he says before he starts playing a few chords—chords I have heard in many dreams before this—but before I can recognize the tune, his fingers continue moving along the strings, his mouth singing the lyrics, but I could no longer hear it.

I try to tell him I can’t hear, but it’s like he can’t hear me.

The louder I screamed, the further away I got from him, as if he was being pulled into the dream, and I was being pulled out.

I open my eyes, frustrated that this dream-turned-nightmare always ends like this. It’s one of the few I have in cycles—all ending before I’m ready for them to.

I’ve had them so many times since Nico died, I’ve lost count. I’m always so close to hearing the song he wrote for me, or convincing him to stay the night, or telling him I didn’t mean what I said, but he always gets pulled away.

If only I could play an instrument, something to figure out the song that haunts me. I can almost hear it in the melodies that play on the radio and the lyrics on my old Spotify playlists, but I can never findthesong.

I pull my knees into my chest and close my eyes, trying to remember anything else from the dream that I can, but I already feel it fading away.

As I open my eyes, the dream is overshadowed by last night’s events as they all come flooding back.

Talking with Becca and Jess in the crowded bar.

Punching that guy in the face.

Mateo coming over.

Mateo yelling at me.

Mateo bringing Eddie.

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