Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Pain.
Pain was good. Pain was real.
As long as I focused on that, I focused on reality and not the past.
I hated being alone.
I hated that I felt lonely.
The house pressed over me, stagnant and stifling, trapping me inside with the Goblin-Milton from my memories.
A moth fluttered too close, its dusty wings brushing against my cheek.
Swallowing a cry, I bolted upright and reached for the side lamp I’d placed on the floor beside my mattress. I still needed to spray-paint Nana’s old bed frame. I needed to go shopping to buy some furniture, but the thought of going out again? Of being around people—no matter how kind and sweet—God, I can’t.
Ugh, what’s wrong with me?!
Why can’t I move on from this?
Something thudded in the gloom.
I swear the doorknob of my bedroom jingled.
The moth swooped back over my eyesight.
With a cry, I snatched my gifted phone from the covers.
Me: Are you awake?
I sent the message before I looked at the time.
One thirty in the morning.
Of course he wasn’t awake. He had a job like a normal person. His professional occupation wasn’t watching me for a living.
Of course he’s in bed!
The house creaked again, shooting my heart rate into scary territory.
One of the closely growing trees scratched its branches against my window.
“Nana, if that’s you…can you stop?” I panted into the darkness. “I’m not doing so well, and I really need my imagination to stop running wild.”
The moth appeared again, drawn by my bedside lamp, but then it switched directions and landed on the blue glow of my cell phone screen.
Tucking away its wings, it perched on the edge as if replying to me.
Nodding, I accepted that Nana had heard my request even though the house cracked again, sending an ominous groan through the walls.
That’s it.
My jitters and shivers had me writing another message.
Hopefully, X had his sound off, and I wouldn’t wake him. Hopefully, he’d see this in the morning, and I would’ve survived the night on my own.
Me: I know I probably did too much today with the market and dinner, but if I don’t do those things, how can I expect to get better? The only problem is…I’m not okay now. I’m hearing things and seeing things, and I can’t move or breathe or think. I hate that I can’t just snap my fingers and be done with this. I hate that I know this is ridiculous, but the flight-or-fight inside me is still living in the past. I know you’re asleep, and I’m so sorry for dumping this on you. It isn’t your responsibility. And I don’t want you to feel like I am. But I can’t say this to anyone else, so…I’m saying it to you. I’m not okay. I hate those words. But they’re true. Please delete this when you wake up. I’m sure I’ll be fine come morning, but right now, I’m just going to use you as a lifeline, okay? I’m just going to keep typing nonsense so I can focus on other things.
I pressed send and immediately started a new text bubble.
Me: I don’t like mango. I don’t know if I’ve ever told anyone that. I’m not keen on apricots, either. The smell gets me, and they’re too sweet. When Nana used them in her creams, I’d feel sick from the smell. What else? I love this house. I always wished I could live here full-time when I was a kid instead of the cold, loveless home with my parents. I was wanted here. At my parents, I was an inconvenience. I might love this house, but it’s treating me like I’m the inconvenience, just like my parents did. It keeps creaking and groaning. I really need to check that all the doors and windows are locked, but I can’t move. I literally can’t get out of bed, and oh my God, this is so stupid. I’m so sorry. I’ll stop. I didn’t mean to type such ridiculous things.
Sending one of the most idiotic messages of my life, I dropped my phone into the blankets and crossed my arms as tightly as I could. Squishing the life out of myself, I resumed my pinching, trembling with the need to snap out of this horrendous funk.
My phone chirped quietly.
I launched for it.
X: The next time you hear footsteps on the stairs, it’s me, alright? Don’t scream. Don’t wake the neighbours. I’m coming over.
“What?”
I gasped and rushed to type back.
Me: No! I mean. I don’t expect you to do that. Stay in bed. Sleep! Ignore me. I’m fine.
X: We agreed no lies, Lori. Give me twenty minutes.
I blinked at my phone.
He couldn’t be serious, could he? Did he live that close? Was that walking distance or twenty minutes by car?
Guilt crushed me at the thought of him driving across town just because I was having a mental breakdown.