Page 67 of Exposed
So much blood.
A face appears. An angel?
No, too dark, the eyes like glinting shards of night betray too many devoured dreams, speak of nightmares feasted upon.
An incubus.
I fancy I can see his wings spread to either side of his wet, muscular body, thick coiled whipping things like feathered serpents. I blink, and he is only a man.
I blink, and I know his face.
I scream, or perhaps I only try to. He is lifting me, and I see blood on his hand as he brushes my hair away from my eyes.
The world tilts and darkens, and a hole attempts to swallow me from inside out, and then I see the flames. I want to be in those flames, where it is warm. I want to be in those flames. I want to be with those in the flames.
I strain, and iron bands hold me back. I reach for the flames. I peer into them, and I can see a hand, blackening. A shirtsleeve crisping, curling. Perhaps I imagine it all. Perhaps I imagine the flames.
I don’t know. I know I am cold.
So cold.
I know pain is all.
I know the iron bands strapped around me are warm and breath smelling of whisky bathes my face.
I look up, and eyes pierce mine. “Sssshhhh. You’ll be okay. I’ll get you help.” The voice is the texture of a blacked-out room, smooth as velvet, powerful and deep.
I am falling. I fight against gravity, because that way lies darkness, and in the darkness lurks obscurity. I don’t know what that thought means, but I know I must fight.
I lose.
I fall.
Through depthless dark, I fall.
I wake with a start. My voice is hoarse. My throat hurts.
You brush away a flyaway strand of hair. Shush me.
I taste the dream, still.
I push you away. Your touch holds no comfort, your voice no respite from the images haunting my brain. “Get away.”
“It’s me, it’s Caleb.”
“I know.” I struggle for a single deep breath. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”
I sit up, curl the blanket tighter around my shoulders, hunch in on myself, eyes clenched shut so hard I see stars and my eyes hurt. I do not want to share this with you, but I must speak it out into the world so it doesn’t die the death of dreams, lost somewhere between brain and tongue.
“I remember how wet it was,” I whisper. “I remember the darkness. I remember hurting. I remember being so cold. I remember being on the sidewalk and seeing this patch of light and wishing I could just make it to the light, because maybe it would be warmer there. And then you... and flames. I feel like—I feel like there was more in the dream, but I can’t remember it. I can’t see it now.”
“But you’re safe now. You’re okay.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not safe. Not with you. You do not tell me all of the truth. Thereisno truth. And I’m not okay. I’m a splintered ghost of a person. And I don’t know how to put the pieces together. I don’t evenhaveall the pieces.”
“Isabel—” you begin.
I chop out with my hand to silence you, and make contact with your leg. “No. Shut up. You are an incubus. You lie.”
