Page 41 of His To Erase
I flinch—but I don’t move. I try to speak, but my mouth won’t open. My voice is gone.
“You think anyone’s going to care? After what you did?”
His voice is louder now, closer.
And suddenly—I’m not in bed anymore. I’m on my hands and knees, covered in blood. The floor’s cold beneath me, sticky with something I don’t want to name. I look up and see myself in a broken mirror. My mascara’s streaked, and my eyes are haunted.
There’s a ringing in my ears, and something sticky clings to the side of my face.
And then I wake up.
A gasp rips out of me as the knife clatters to the floor, breaking the silence like a gunshot. I lurch upright, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.
I’m soaked in sweat, shaking, and breathing way too fast. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
Breathe, Ani.
Breathe.
I wish I could remember.
Or maybe I wish I could forget.
I just wish these dreams would stop hunting me in the dark like they know I won’t fight back.
I reach for the keyboard,fingers hovering for a beat before I type one word into the search bar:missing. I hesitate, then add:Woman. Nothing specific. Just enough to test the waters. I don’t know what I’m looking for. An obituary. A name. A story that explains why my nightmares are getting worse.
Or maybe… I want to know if he’s still out there.
The man I haven’t talked about out loud in over six months. The one whose voice still crawls through my skull when I close my eyes.
I delete the words, my pulse suddenly hammering like I did something wrong just by typing them. What if he’s not dead? What if he’s looking for me? Watching? Waiting?
What if… he’s already found me?
I lean back, the chair groaning under me as I push away from the desk, rubbing my eyes. I just need a second. Just one second to close my eyes and reset before the bar.
I jolt awake to the sound of someone snapping gum way too close to my ear.
"Jesus, Ani. If you’re gonna nap on the job, at least leave me a note so I don’t think you’re dead."
I blink against the harsh overhead light, groaning as I lift my head off the desk. My cheek’s stuck to the surface and my spine feels like it’s been rearranged by a drunk chiropractor.
Sloane’s standing there, library lanyard slung around her neck, and her oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. Her blonde curls are piled on top of her head like she lost a brawl with a scrunchie and just walked away from the scene.
She’s smiling, but there’s concern in her eyes.
"Rough night?" she asks, tossing a stack of books onto the return cart.
"You could say that." I rub at the knot forming in my neck. "How long was I out?"
"Long enough that I started planning your funeral playlist."
"Make sure it’s depressing," I mumble. "No Dancing Queen bullshit."
She snorts. "Bold of you to assume I’ll honor your last wishes."
My body’s not just tired—it’s empty. I feel like I’ve been holding on too tight to something for too long, and now I’m just… frayed.
