Page 68 of Firethorne
The rain was lashing the windows harder now as the storm picked up. And I came to the living room and peered around, trying to see if anything was out of place. That’s when I noticed my copy ofEmmalying open on the coffee table. I hadn’t leftit like that, and my heart hammered in my chest as my breaths came a little quicker now. I leant down to pick up the book, and a crack of lightning sparking up the night sky made my head shoot up. And there, reflected in the window, standing behind me was a dark figure.
I screamed, spinning around, ready to fight for my life, but there was no one there.
I scrambled for the light switch, switching it on and bathing the apartment in light. The storm was raging now, and even though I could see that there was no one here, that figure still haunted me.
Was I seeing things?
Did I imagine the whole thing?
Maybe it wasn’t a figure, but something else?
The mind can do strange things to you when you’re grieving, like I was. Acute stress and trauma can play with your senses and make you doubt your own existence. Perhaps I needed to give myself some grace and recognise that my mental state wasn’t as strong as it used to be. That after everything, I needed time to heal, both mentally and physically.
I slammed the book shut and headed back to the bedroom. Then, once inside, I closed the door and pulled a chair across the carpet to place it under the door handle. I couldn’t lock myself in, so this was the next best thing. I lay back down on the bed again, above the covers, and I tried to focus on the steady beat of the rain as the thunder began to subside. And eventually, I drifted off to sleep.
Crack.
A spark of lightning woke me with a start, bathing the room in light, and for a split second, I saw a dark figure looming over me at the end of the bed. I screamed and scrambled to sit up, kicking my legs as I crawled up the bed. But no sooner had I seen the figure, it disappeared.
I panted, staring at the spot where I’d seen that figure only moments ago. Maybe my mind had placed it there, like an image from my dreams projected into the real world. That had to be what I’d seen, because the windows were secured, no one could enter the apartment that way, and the chair I’d placed against the door hadn’t been moved.
I was going insane.
I spent the rest of the night sitting on the bed with my knees tucked into my chest and my arms wrapped tightly around them, waiting for the sun to rise so I could drink way too much strong coffee to stay awake and count the minutes until the night came again. Until the nightmares and night terrors found me again.
Would they ever go away?
Chapter Thirty
Damien
Iwalked into the apartment, holding my bags, expecting to see Maya on the sofas, but she wasn’t there. So, I headed to the kitchen to put the food away and make a start on today’s task to help Maya rehabilitate and heal, my way. When I walked through the door, I found her sitting at the kitchen island, sipping a black coffee and looking like she hadn’t slept in a week. There were dark rings around her eyes, and she sat hunched over, her shoulders sagging and her eyes downcast.
When she saw me, she brightened up a little, sitting up on her stool and watching intently as I placed the bags on the counter and started to unpack everything.
“Good morning,” she said, stifling a yawn. “What have you got there? The flesh of your enemies?”
"I wish." I smirked, taking a carving knife from the bag and stabbing it into one of the steaks. “Serving my enemies up as the main course sounds right up my alley.”
The way she flinched at my stabbiness made me realise she actually believed me. God, I was good at this villain shit.
“So, what’ll it be?” I asked her. “Rare, medium-rare, well done?”
“What?” she replied with an incredulous look on her face.
“How do you like your steak cooked?”
She didn’t reply right away. Just stared at me like I’d spoken a foreign language.
“Why are you cooking me steak?” she asked, mistrust swimming in her eyes.
“Because you’re looking pale, Maya,” I replied plainly as I unpacked the rest of the groceries. “And I thought I could cook something healthier for you, build up your strength.” And turning to give her a pointed stare, I added, “You’ll need it.”
She ignored me and shot back, “How am I supposed to eat a steak when there’s no cutlery here? Everything is paper or plastic. Paper plates, plastic cups...”
“I have steak knives,” I announced, pulling them from the bag and holding them up.
“And you trust me to use those to eat... and not to stab you and escape?”
