Page 8 of Fanged Embrace
Swinging my feet off the bed, I planted them on the scuffed floorboards, letting the chill seep into my soles. It was grounding, for a moment, but that too was a painful reminder of the past: Bare feet on cold floors, bland hallways, and people in lab coats breezing by like ghosts.
“Stop,” I scolded myself with a stinging palm to my cheek. The light prickle of pain cleared the cobwebs from my eyes, but the dredges of vicious night terrors remained. I stood upright, forcing one foot in front of the other until my body remembered how to move on its own.
I paced across the apartment—a small studio space that some would call cozy. It was nothing but claustrophobic to me. It felt like a holding cell, or a cage, and when I’d first moved in, it was far too clinical and clean to ever be comfortable. Now, Istepped over scattered newspapers and empty takeout containers on my way to the front door.
The place was a mess, but I was too wired to care—at the same time, too fatigued to do anything about it.
I reached the front door and checked the deadbolt—twice, then thrice. Once more. The rickety chain lock rattled under my fingers. Next, the single window to my left—locked, secure. The tiny kitchenette window—locked. The bathroom door—I tested the knob and peeked inside, just to be sure no one was waiting for me in there.Ridiculous.But my pulse slowed a fraction once I confirmed that I was indeed alone.
Then I leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers drumming restlessly in the stifling stillness.What time is it?Some ungodly hour, probably. A glance at my phone told me dawn was still a few hours away. Too long a wait, with no desire to return to sleep.
The nightmares would drag me straight back to that facility, to the memory of bright lights and blood-stained floors, and I’d jolt awake again, maybe screaming next time. It had happened before. I rubbed my arms, wishing I had a shred of calm left in me. Instead, all I had was that thrumming urge todo something.Anything, just to keep the ghosts at bay.
Eventually, I opened the fridge, rummaging for a drink. Nothing but stale water and half a can of soda from who-knows-when. I grabbed the soda, sipped it, made a face at the flat taste, then tossed it aside.Figures.It clattered into the kitchen sink.
Arlon had helped me pick this place out about a year ago, when I decided it was time to live on my own. God knows I never would’ve found something this… well, marginally better than a rat-hole, without him. The landlord, an elderly woman with suspicious eyes, only let me sign the lease after Arlon stepped in with a few reassuring words and a stiff presence that insinuatedcop—don’t argue.
Even then, she’d eyed me like I might vanish in the night.
Living with Arlon before that had been a mixed bag. It wasn’t a pretty picture: he tried to help me as best he could, and I’d flinch at every small noise, every footstep across the creaky floor of his tiny bungalow. He meant well, but the closeness, the forced domesticity under his watchful gaze, quickly grew stifling.
He’d try anything to help merecover,to the point of annoyance. Therapy sessions, group meetings, and even an art class because he thought “expressing my trauma” would help. But every new push to fix me just made me shut down further. I’d skip appointments or sulk silently in the back of the car, arms folded, blocking out any attempt at conversation.
Eventually, I’d had enough. Arlon saw it in my eyes—desperation, resentment, and plenty of guilt at being unable to handle living under his roof a moment longer. I gave him a halting speech about needing my own space, to stand on my own two feet and, of course, he supported me—cautiously, but earnestly, because that’s just who Arlon was.
Hence, my current state: an unkempt apartment that was tangible proof of exactly why he worried.
The fridge would’ve been stocked at his place, no chance of stale soda or suspicious smells. But independence had its perks, if only minimal. And if I occasionally starved because I forgot to buy groceries—so be it.Arlon was right to be concerned, but that didn’t mean I’d scurry back under his wing.
At least I was alone, no more well-meaning footsteps in the hallway to make me jump. I sometimes missed the quiet comfort of not having to check every lock by myself—Arlon was always up first, scanning windows and doors before I even got out of bed. But that small reassurance couldn’t outweigh the suffocating sense of always being observed, always trying to live up to his idea ofrecovery.
The word was bitter on my tongue. There was no “recovering” from what happened. Surviving, sure, but that didn’t mean living. I rubbed my temples, half-laughing at the irony that even here in my very own fortress of solitude, I couldn’t find peace.
I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, not whiletheywere still out there.
With a low groan, I pushed off the counter and started pacing again, double-checking every lock.No rest for the wicked.Or for the broken, apparently. Like a wind-up toy, I had to run myself down, repeat the same pattern until sheer exhaustion dragged me to my knees. That was the only way to get a good night’s sleep.
Because the nightmares never ceased. They followed me everywhere, always, and I wasn’t naive enough to assume I’d ever be free from them. No amount of therapy, or talking, or “expressing my feelings” would be enough to wipe them away.
All I had to cling to was revenge, and even that was little more than a pipe dream. But it was the only good dream I had.
5
River
The future was refusing to cooperate.
I spent most of the weekend shut away in the quiet corner of my office, trying out every yoga pose I could manage without pulling a muscle, and scrawling my half-formed visions on scraps of paperwork. Usually, I'd have a pretty good sense of how a scenario might unfold once I glimpsed a fragment or two, but this time everything felt garbled, like trying to tune into a radio station with constant static.
It had something to do with Laurie, I was sure of it—and it didn’t help that I couldn’t get her out of my head.
Usually, once I saw someone in a vision it was easy to track the lines of fate around them. But with Laurie, it was like chasing smoke. In a way it felt… refreshing, if maddening, to have zero knowledge of how things might unfold with her.
Throughout my life, I’d never really allowed myself to indulge in romantic relationships, nothing long-term at least—knowing the different ways they could crumble kind of souredthe fun. But with Laurie, I was free from that burden. She was probably straight though, and definitely afraid of me, so it was a moot point. But that tingling curiosity remained, a quiet longing for something uncharted.
I shook my head. “God,focus. There’s a crisis brewing.”
Because according to what glimpses Ididhave, something big was coming. I groaned, pressing my fingertips to my temples, willing the chaos in my head to line up into a neat timeline. It refused.
